


Ere

by audreycritter



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Gen, PTSD, TW: Blood, TW: Vomit, TW: brief mentions of canonical miscarriage, assassination attempts in the foreground, gods and faith and legacies, king and guard bromance, no ships except Irene/Gen and also boats there are some boats, poor costis, pregnancy in the background, reclaiming platonic affection from the hellpit of toxic masculinity, shortfic that spiraled into more, thiefly things, tw: falls, tw: poison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Costis Ormentiedes swore to serve the king and his god, and he took that oath seriously.(Un)fortunately, so did the god.
Relationships: Aristogiton & Costis Ormentiedes, Attolia | Irene/Eugenides, Eugenides & Costis Ormentiedes, Kamet & Costis Ormentiedes
Comments: 211
Kudos: 292





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete and will be posted in chapters. This is my first fic in the fandom, so please feel free to (politely) comment on any details that contradict canon. I am small, and nervous, and want to respect the source material where I can.
> 
> I owe so much to lurkinglurkerwholurks, who was a constant cheerleader and provider of feedback and brain storm companion. This story wouldn't have happened without her.
> 
> Also, to cerusee, who told me a long time ago I should read Megan Whalen Turner and I'm sorry it took me so long to listen.
> 
> Also, to Imbecamiel, who gifted me the last three while I was dealing with a family medical crisis. It helped get me through that week. <3

> "We invoke the Great Goddess in our hour of need for her wisdom and her mercy," Teleus said in the demotic.
> 
> " _Ere_ translates as love, a rather ruthless love, not mercy, Teleus. The Great Goddess of Eddis is not known for her mercy." 
> 
> - _The King of Attolia_ , Megan Whalen Turner

Those early days in Roa were like water in the irrigation ditches on the Ormentiedes farm. They were swollen, full of purpose, for Costis. Time flowed like water rushing past the sluice gates, soaking the earth until the edges of fields turned to mud. They were hours full of labor in this new place— gathering plants to study and improve his rudimentary sketching skills by studying, teaching Kamet to swim and to hold a knife for fighting.

For Kamet, those days of new freedom were like the ditches in late summer when the sluice gate opened wide to possibility and water seeped in a slow trickle to dampen the bone-dry dust. The sun rose and baked the fields of his time until every hour was tense with sick dread: freedom was a difficult thing, choked by hot air, and Kamet began to doubt he’d ever be comfortable or at ease.

Costis had stepped off the ship onto the wooden docks of the little fishing village and smothered his worry at being a foreigner again, for the second time in a year, and thrown himself into whatever he could find to do. It had taken a few days to register Kamet’s unease as something deep, while he watched the other man slip further and further into silence and deferential behavior.

When he had suggested, early in the dark dawn of their small rented apartments, that he teach Kamet to wield a knife for self-defense, Kamet had nodded his agreement with the blanket drawn around his shoulders. He had been standing near a window, looking out at the sea down the hill, and the lamplight cast the crescents beneath his eyes into even deeper shadows. He had not been sleeping well.

Later, in a fallow field full of thin weeds that smelled like saltwater, Costis had held a knife hilt out toward Kamet and the other man’s fingers shook like leaves in the wind when he raised his hand to grasp it.

“Kamet,” Costis had said, a sick sort of knowing in his gut, “You can tell me no.”

The startled and suspicious brown eyes caught his gaze for a mere second before dropping.

“No,” Kamet had said, barely loud enough to hear. With his head bowed, he had swallowed and remained motionless except for the trembling in his fingers. Then, he had raised his chin. “No,” he said again. “I want to know.”

Something shifted, then. Kamet felt it the way one could feel a mosaic tile fitting into place. Whatever sense of self he had gained and reburied in the trip from Mede to Attolia to Roa, he began then to rebuild. He sensed it would be a long project, one small tile at a time, but he had the days.

“If you can teach me without cutting your own fingers off,” he added, the words his own and forced out ahead of an instinctive fear.

Costis’ grin chased the wisps of that fear away. “That’s more like it,” the Attolian said, in Mede. “Tuck in your thumb. No, grip it like this— you’ll slice your own arm when it’s pushed in a fight, that way.”

Kamet learned to fight with a knife, with a short sword, to swim, to speak with Roan slang, to write the legal phrases that brought him into high demand as a scribe for small local and private matters, to take his translations to a local monk for discussion, to look another man in the eyes when speaking.

In this way, one long day at a time, Kamet learned to be free.

It was backbreaking work in the sun-burnt field of his former life, as he laid one small tile of effort after another in the reclaimed dirt. A picture emerged, one of beauty and desire and joy rather than mere usefulness alone.

The seasons shifted as months passed, and there came a time when Kamet’s days were full. The sluice gates were open and the tiled courtyard he’d built filled with water in a low, clear pool. He did scribe work for local fishermen and shop owners, he spent days at the temple on the hill reading texts in the library and translating and writing.

Costis had a thick sheaf of papers with sketches and notes on local plants, sparring exercises, and days that grew increasingly long and empty. He missed the routine of guard duty, and while he enjoyed meals with Kamet he missed the meals with Aris and others in a hall full of noise.

More than that, he worried. He worried for his king, whom he had not seen or heard from in months. Letters from Attolia’s court were frequent enough, but there was only so much he could press Aris and others for, only so much they would know. His fingers itched to be useful, to find purpose again.

He listened to Kamet recite new translations in the evening, when they lit a fire against the coastal chill, and he savored those moments. He also stilled his hands, sharpening a fish knife blade, and prayed to his new god, to his old gods, to Roan gods if they were nearer and would hear more clearly, that his discontent wouldn’t show on his face.

 _Please gods, don’t let Kamet think it’s him I’m unhappy with,_ he pled in the gathering dark, with a man half-blind. He had been told he was easy to read, and Kamet had developed a knack for reading him even if he couldn’t make out all the details of Costis’ expression.

He was miserable and lonely and homesick in a way he hadn’t been since leaving the farm. In some ways, it was worse, because even in Roa on the King’s orders felt like he was neglecting some sacred duty. Leaving the farm had come with strains of guilt, but nothing like this. It mattered very little that the King had sent him, when life was still and slow enough that he closed his eyes at night and saw Attolis dead a dozen different ways.

The bright relief in his days was the time with Kamet, but as Kamet’s hours filled with tasks and hobbies and new local friends, Costis’ hours emptied out. The early spring came and he signed on with a local fishing boat to work, for something to do. He left their apartment before dawn, a heavy wool sweater pulled over his head to ward off the chill, and tried to tell himself he didn’t hate the ocean spray and smell of fish as much as he did. Hauling in the nets was distracting, and the coin he earned was added to the money Kamet made doing scribe work. They rarely had to dip into the remains of the purse Attolis had sent them with.

It was a good and simple life, free of intrigue or danger. Kamet, with his scrolls and poems and new intellectual friends at the temple, thrived. His work watching the sea off the coast never yielded anything of immediate excitement, merely logs for letters. Lingering nightmares and fears were a bearable thorn in his side.

Costis floundered. It was clear now that Kamet was in little danger of being hunted here in Roa— his former master and the Mede emperor were too busy to bother with revenge against a slave hidden across a sea and protected by foreign powers they were now under intense scrutiny in approaching.

The information Kamet had given Attolia— there were rumors, and not even Costis was entirely certain what it was— had crippled the Mede interactions with Attolia so severely he had secured his own safety for the time being. Aris sent word that the Brael ambassador who had visited Attolia’s court on the way to Mede was, by everyone’s accounts, a glorified watchdog. Aris’ telling was more interested in describing the new pistol model the Braeling kept on his belt, but Costis read enough to know the Greater Powers were collectively keeping the Mede Empire on a short leash.

So, Costis wasn’t needed for protection, and his friendship with Kamet was valuable but not enough to give him a sense of daily purpose. It wasn’t _work_ , it wasn’t his King. It was good that Kamet had other connections now, and enjoyed the jobs he had the freedom to choose. Costis was glad for him, but it left him wondering how long he was meant to stay in Roa when he could send letters and visit while doing more pressing jobs elsewhere.

Still, he didn’t write.

He didn’t hint to Aris that he longed to come home, he didn’t dare to do so in his more infrequent correspondence with Teleus, and he absolutely didn’t dare plead his case directly with the King.

The King had his Queen to rule with, and now three countries to manage. If he sent for Costis, it would be when he thought to do so, and had a reason for it. Costis would press him to take care of himself, but not to notice an absent former guard.

It would have gone on like that indefinitely— the fishing boat and plants, the scribe work and late night translation reviews— if it had not been for what happened as spring turned to summer.

It wasn’t just one thing, but it was never just one thing.

The first was that Costis fell.

* * *

Roa was small. Her fishing boats were not.

They were more properly ships, long vessels of tarred wood with two square sails at stern and mast and a long slanted sail that stretched over the bow. The decks were a maze of hatches and narrow walking planks and waxed wooden slats to drop their flopping, wriggling cargo straight into the dark hold below.

Costis, with his land legs, twisted an ankle his first week working on one when his boot heel got caught in one of the wooden gratings. He learned to step more carefully after that.

They’d go out in the morning before the sun was up and trawl heavy nets below the water slapping against the hull. The captain piloted and shouted orders, but a fishing boat only held so many men, and he would be right alongside them cranking the winch that hauled the nets up. They’d come up slow and glistening with teeming, frantic fish. The fish sparkled with water and turned a dull blue-gray the second they were in the air.

The sun rose the day Costis fell, a blazing bright movement that seemed likely to drive the thick fog off the water. Within an hour, it had slipped behind dense clouds and the fog remained.

The captain had spent most of the morning shouting about ropes and nets and fish and eyeing the horizon all the time, his mouth bunched to one side in a fierce and unhappy scowl. It was only slightly more unhappy than his usual expression, so Costis didn’t think much of it until the captain began glancing back toward the coast they’d left in the distance and muttering to himself.

He lifted a hatch and stared at the fish inside, muttering more, and then slammed it shut and tore his hat off to scrub at his forehead with one sleeve. When he stood and turned, it was with commands already on his lips.

“Oi, there’n reef th’sail. Tighten mainsheet and jib, pull to windward. It’s a hairy spit that’s comin’ up, and we’re spillin’ cups to beat it with our scales shinin’. Lash yous all to the deck, with an arm of rope now.”

The first few weeks on the crew, Costis hadn’t understood a word the captain said. He watched other fishermen like a hawk to follow what they did, the rougher Roan dialect and accent incomprehensible to him. His Attolian accent baffled the captain just as much, and after several times barking “Whar it?” at Costis he’d given up and taken to treating Costis as a sort of mute.

(“You do have an accent,” Kamet had told him when he’d brought it up over bowls of stew.

“Not that thick,” Costis had defended. “I sound Attolian.”

“You sound like a farm boy,” Kamet had insisted, as if he’d deduced this rather than heard a dozen stories of the Ormentiedes home. “It’s quaint.”

“Mede was easier to learn,” Costis had grumbled into his stew. Kamet had laughed at that, a quiet laugh behind his cupped hand, and Costis had hidden his grin in a bite of coarse sesame roll.)

Now, Costis swung to look at the ocean and the sky. The clouds, earlier a pale gray that melded with the fog, were darkening. He was careful where he put his feet while he tugged the outhaul up, watching the distant storm gather and move toward them. Wind picked up and drove the fog away, and threw briny spray across the deck and into their faces, bitter cold. The water lapping against the hull grew angry, smacking fiercely against the caulked wood and hugging the edges of the deck with white foam.

The fishermen worked in tense silence, only speaking to relay orders or requests. Someone went down the deck setting the locks on the hatches and then threw a loop of rope at Costis, and gestured at a metal circle set down the center of the stern. The other three fishermen were making quick work of tying the ropes around their waists and lashing the other end through the circles. Costis joined them and the moment they pulled the mainsail to windward the ship jerked forward and flew.

The wind drove them but the storm swallowed the ship. Thunder boomed overhead and the sky cracked open. The downpour was sudden and thick, and within seconds every scrap of clothing Costis had on was drenched through. The captain, at the stern, looked fixedly ahead while the ship plowed through rain and wave with a violent jostling. Ropes strained when the ship leaned leeward so far that Costis skidded portside, the deck nearly vertical beneath his feet for a moment. One hatch, not locked or the lock broken, flew open and fish spilled out across the deck. A coil of rope and net swept by him, almost knocking him over, and vanished into the water.

The ship righted as lightning lit up the air and Costis could see the docks ahead. They were coming in fast, he thought. A figure was standing on the grass beyond the docks in the rain, watching.

“Gods damn this kindling boat.”

Costis heard the snarl and he shifted to look around. The captain was wrestling with the main halyard and Costis had not been wrong— they were definitely approaching the docks too fast. Another fisherman, a Roan man with scarred ears, joined the captain in his mad scramble to get the main halyard to respond.

With the next flash of lightning, Costis looked up and saw a net tangled around the top halyard.

The Roan coast was rocky, the docks built out over the slick and jagged boulders that covered the shore here where the drop off was deep enough for ships. More lurked beneath the water of the shoals, closer in, green with clinging seaweed when the water wasn’t dark with storm.

If they ran aground at this speed, driven like dogs by the wind, the ship would splinter to pieces and likely slice them to bits only to fall on the rocks next.

Costis moved before he planned, chilled fingers making quick work of the rope knotted around him. He sprang for the mast, feet braced on the boom, and climbed hand over hand up the short iron bars driven into the wood as a ladder. This ship was too small to have the extensive rigging of a war ship, so the narrow spikes were the only way to reach the top halyard.

Any voices below were lost in the howl of the wind, his ears assaulted like a sharp cuff from his uncle’s hand. The iron was slippery and his hands ached from holding. At the top, he couldn’t sling an arm around the mast without trapping the limb beneath the sail still ballooned with wind.

He clung to the rung with one hand and freed a knife from his belt with the other, and began sawing at the net where it tangled with the halyard line. One thick bundle of strands at a time, it gave way and fell back. Water stung his eyes and he blinked again and again to see the ropes.

Right when the dock was in the corner of his vision and he thought for sure it would be too late, the net snapped and slithered free. He could hear shouts below him but not make out the words.

The mainsail dropped, the short sail in the stern swung around, and the ship swerved portside like a chariot with harshly jerked reins. The ship tipped leeward so fast that Costis’ hands lost their purchase on the iron and he was flung out over the choppy water.

He never knew if he’d screamed or not, and any sound he made was cut short when his side slammed into the end of the dock the ship had avoided. All the air was forced out of him and he slid beneath the water in a haze of pain and confusion.

Then he was holding the edge of the rough wood, hauling his face clear to suck in a thin breath. He didn’t remember grabbing, but his fingers dug into the wood. A moment later Kamet was gripping his wrist and pulling him up. Costis kicked against the water and braced his elbows on the planks. He collapsed on the dock as soon as his knees planted on it, sputtering and coughing.

“Oh, it’s you,” Kamet said, with some alarm. He sounded as choked as Costis felt. “You backwoods _fool_.”

So, he’d seen Costis climbing but not been able to make out who it was. Costis lay on his back, rain lashing his face, and heaved breath after breath.

 _It is a thief’s right to die by a fall,_ he heard, as clearly as if his King were beside him. _I am in my god’s hands. He will keep me safe or he will not._

His hands started to shake and he rolled onto his side to sit up, groaning when his ribs reminded him of the blow they’d taken. His breath came in short hisses for a long minute while Kamet knelt with his face in his hands beside him.

Then, Kamet dropped his hands from his face and grabbed Costis’ elbow to help him to his feet. Costis cradled an arm against his aching ribs and staggered toward the shore.

The downpour was steady, waves crashing against the rocks, and Costis glanced once over his shoulder to see the fishing boat being anchored alongside the dock. He kept climbing the hill into the town and toward their apartment, and Kamet was quiet until they were in the small kitchen and living room.

“You aren’t a bird, to be in the air so much,” Kamet muttered, when he banked the small oven fire to warm water. They had both grown fond of Roan tea, and the sharp mint smell filled the air when he opened the carved box of it.

“I’m alright,” Costis said, easing down into a hard chair. He tucked his still shaking hands beneath the table and willed himself to steady them.

“What does it matter to me,” Kamet said, his back to Costis while he moved thick earthen mugs around. They weren’t the delicate porcelain of Mede or the silver of Attolia, but they worked well enough. “What is it to me if you fall to your death?”

“Kamet,” Costis said, and the other man stilled. “I’m alright. Look at me. It was nothing.”

“Nothing,” Kamet echoed, his voice thin and low. He did not turn to look. “My dear Costis. Your Mede is serviceable, but this is the wrong word. Perhaps you knocked your head, as well.”

“No,” Costis said, staring at his hands on his lap. They were still shaking and more than anything he wanted to sleep, and let the whole thing fade into something he could believe was merely dream. Kamet didn’t have to mention the well back in Mede; he didn’t have to remind Costis of the first month in Roa, when a tree branch snapped beneath him and Costis had fallen like his sister’s rag doll, taking leaves and sticks and vine with him.

Costis remembered well enough on his own.

His stomach roiled, sour with saltwater and a kind of dread. Kamet set tea in front of him several minutes later and stood beside the table, his own mug in his hand. He didn’t sip it, while he regarded Costis. Costis coughed, and coughed, and coughed again until he was bent over with his mouth buried in his soaked sleeve.

“I hate fish,” Costis said hoarsely, when he could breathe again.

“I know,” Kamet said quietly, in a strangely sympathetic tone. He wasn’t teasing anymore, and he set his own tea down on the table with a quiet _thunk_. He disappeared from the room into the one where Costis slept, and reemerged with a pile of clothes and a thick blanket. He placed them on the chair beside Costis.

“I’m going to find a doctor.”

“Kamet,” Costis said, but he coughed again and before he could gather himself to insist he didn’t need a physician, Kamet was gone.

Costis blinked blearily at his own tea, Kamet’s untouched tea, and then spent long and agonizing minutes extracting himself from his drenched shirt. It hurt to raise his left arm. He dragged the blanket around himself when he’d gotten into dry trousers, and didn’t even try to fight with the clean shirt. A dark bruise was already spreading across his chest.

When Kamet returned, it was with one of the monks from the temple higher on the hill. Costis had told himself more than once he was fine to go back out and help unload the fish before they died and rotted; he’d also told himself to just go to bed. He’d listened to neither and was still sitting uncomfortably in the chair, huddled under the blanket. When he coughed, his mouth tasted like brine.

“I told your captain you were alive,” Kamet said, while the monk pressed a horn-shaped object to Costis’ back and quietly instructed him to breathe. Costis did, and winced.

“He’s not my captain,” Costis retorted, some wild fear stirring in him at the thought. He served the King and Queen, his captain was Teleus. This wasn’t a career path, it was merely work to fill the time.

“The captain,” Kamet corrected smoothly. He stood beside the monk while Costis sat back in the chair and closed his eyes while his tender ribs were prodded at.

“Bed,” the monk advised. “I’ll leave herbs for the cough. Kay knows how to prepare them.”

“You’re Attolian,” Costis said, recognizing the accent.

“Once,” the man replied. “In another life. Rest. If that water in your lungs turns stale, you’ll die of infection.”

“I’m not going to die of infection,” Costis said, a fragile confidence settling over his unease. The confidence covered the dread and grew stronger, more sure, within him.

“What is it to me?” Kamet said dismissively.

“I’ll go to bed,” Costis agreed, and the tense set of Kamet’s shoulders relaxed a little. “For now.”

The monk left and Costis shuffled to bed, the blanket around his shoulders and trailing behind him like he was a child. Rain pattered against the small, cloudy glass window in his room and he slept fitfully between times Kamet brought bitter herbal tea.

Slowly, he recovered.

He dreamt of falling and never landing, about Attolis falling from the palace walls and cracking his head open. He would wake with a gasp in the dark before dawn, and stare at the ceiling and worry about his king, so far away.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning came when Costis rose and pulled a sweater over his head and wordlessly rejoined the fishing crew, his ribs a dull ache but not more than that. He didn’t know what else to do. The captain’s thanks for saving their lives and the ship were just words thrown out of the corner of his mouth: “Oi, I’m in a debt to yous, whar it.”

Costis shook his head and hauled nets.

When the sun rose, one of the other fishermen tipped his head close to Costis’ and said, in a quiet and gruff way, “You’ve a drink from my purse, after we bring the catch in.”

“Thank you,” Costis said, accepting. He could understand wanting to settle the matter with the offer of a gift. His own honor would have demanded as much if their places had been switched.

He fell back into the rhythm of those days, with the addition of some evenings where he drank with other fishermen. The first time he’d gone to the small bar, other fishermen pounded him on the back and the story of him on the mast was told over and over. He squirmed and winced under the pressure of hands on his still healing ribs and the attention, and nearly didn’t go back. The strong, dark beer took the edge off, and then they had dropped it by the next evening, their social consciousness having moved on to other topics.

The fishermen weren’t exactly his friends. Evenings drinking with them was something to do, but Costis never lost that sense of himself as an outsider. He was a visitor to their way of life, like a hired hand on his family farm— he was a stranger in the midst of men whose fathers and fathers’ fathers and fathers before them had all fished the Roan coast. Many of them were brothers or sons or nephews or cousins. He drank with them and listened to them talk and somehow, it made him miss Aris and the Guard even more.

He went home and almost always arrived before Kamet, who spent long hours in the temple library now that the daylight stretched later into the evening.

It was no wonder, then, with his mending injury and close call and new circle that it took him a while to notice what was going on with Kamet.

There was a late night when Costis sat to eat, and Kamet stood by the open door watching the sky.

“I’m watching the moon,” Kamet said, his bowl in his hands.

Costis realized, as if struck across the face, that Kamet had not sat with him for days. Not since he spent a chain of days in bed. He studied the other man’s slender back and his narrow shoulders. He chewed sesame bread. He waited, while he finished eating, and the second he was done and stood with his bowl, Kamet lifted his own spoon and began to eat.

If the fall had left a dread in him that gradually turned into a confident conviction, this small thing wrung him like a damp cloth. The twisting of his stomach set cold tendrils down his limbs and he pressed his lips together.

He would watch and wait and say something after a few days, after he’d studied to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood or jumped to the wrong conclusions.

Kamet shut the door and turned.

What Costis meant to say was, “Is the moon risen already?” and what came out of his mouth was, “You don’t have to wait for permission to sit down, Kamet.”

Kamet froze, the bowl of food he had waited to eat in his hands, and he flushed red from his brown neck all the way up to the tips of his ears. He dropped his gaze and then moved to sit stiffly in a chair.

“There are times, my friend, I think you can see straight through me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What happened?” Costis asked, his heart sick and his hands itching for the hilt of a sword. Whoever had scared or shamed Kamet was someone Costis would gladly find to break their bones. Whatever day Kamet had come home upset, it must have been a day Costis was still sleeping enough that he didn’t notice.

“I have written to Relius,” Kamet said, his hands clasped.

“And you can tell me as well,” Costis said, anger lacing his tone. “What can he do from Attolia’s court? I have my sword, under my bed, if you’d just tell me who—”

“I told him I was concerned for you,” Kamet said, the words loud and firm enough to interrupt Costis.

Costis mouth went dry. “What?”

“He asked how you were doing in his last letter.”

“That’s a formality,” Costis said, a groove furrowed in his brow. “It’s just…it’s what someone…”

“I wrote that you were bored, and growing reckless.”

There was dense silence in the little room.

Kamet stirred the food he was no longer eating, and then let the spoon fall against the side of the bowl. “It is likely he will encourage the King to send for you.”

The hope that burst into life in his chest was the only reason Costis’ frustration was reduced to a mere stammer. He stood abruptly, and began pacing, desperate for motion to think.

“You told…you _lied_ to the former Master of Spies,” Costis managed. “I’m not reckless. Kamet, that wasn’t what happened on the ship. Your eyes are bad but they aren’t that bad. You saw where we were, what would have happened.”

“Yes,” Kamet said, his head bowed. He lifted it when Costis was silent, and looked him full in the face, fear and challenge both there. “I said what I needed to say, to try to get what you wanted.”

“What I want is not—”

“You do,” Kamet said. “I’m not that blind.”

“What I want is _irrelevant_ ,” Costis yelled, fury spilling. “It doesn’t matter what I want!”

“You are not a slave,” Kamet said, his voice dangerous and hard.

“I swore an _oath_ ,” Costis snapped. He ran a hand through his hair and turned on his heel to pace the other way. “I swore an oath and it isn’t the same. It was my choice.”

“You are _not a slave_ ,” Kamet repeated. “Yet you fear to tell anyone in your letters how unhappy you are. How do you serve Attolis fishing for a day’s wage? I copy scrolls and watch the sea and you fish and cannot even hide your discontent. You could have died, and for what? Have you even told your friend what a close call you had?”

“How do you know what I leave out of my letters?” Costis asked, the volume dropping out of his voice. He sank down into the chair, stunned as if slapped.

“I could read them and seal them again and you would never know,” Kamet said. “I am not without my skills, and they are very fine skills. But I have not. You just told me what I suspected.”

Costis covered his face with both hands. “I was not meant for this kind of intrigue.”

“No,” Kamet said. “You have a place and it is not here, not anymore.”

“Have I…what did I do? Did I hurt or insult you somehow?” Costis spoke against his palms, his voice muffled. The idea that he’d wounded Kamet in some way snuffed out his anger.

“No,” Kamet said, as if startled.

“Then _why_?” Costis asked. “Why are you acting afraid of me, waiting again for me to tell you what to do, for me to finish eating before you eat?”

“Have I been?” Kamet asked in return, genuinely thoughtful. “Oh.”

Costis looked at him, feeling wretched.

“I have been afraid,” Kamet admitted quietly. “I didn’t even realize. Not of you, you overgrown farm boy. Of losing your friendship. I hid things from you. This was not the first time, and I wonder at the limits of your forgiveness.”

Costis felt weak in every limb, the breath gone out of him, and he covered his eyes with one hand and inhaled slowly. His ribs ached. “Of course I forgive you.”

“I’m sorry,” Kamet said.

“If the King sends for me,” Costis said, “What will you do?”

Kamet’s smile was slow, but determined. “The temple has invited me to stay. They wish me to tutor some barons’ sons entrusted to them, and to consult on a history of foreign customs. I know much about Setra and Medea that they find useful.”

Costis had the unsettling feeling that others were again arranging his life around him, whether or not he wanted it.

“So, so, so,” he said, softly.

“So,” Kamet agreed. “It is time for a change. I can still watch for ships. You can go home and guard the king.”

“If he sends for me,” Costis said, warning himself as much as Kamet.

“He will,” Kamet said.

“If,” Costis said again. He scrubbed at the beard on his face, long overdue for a shave. He wondered if his knife needed to be sharpened.

“He will,” Kamet said, gesturing in a slight shrug, his palms upturned. “I told them you were reckless.”

“That’s hardly a recommendation for return to the Guard,” Costis said. He felt stupid, fighting so hard against the very thing he wanted most. He was terrified of the messenger with the letter never arriving, of being forgotten or left for diminishing purpose in Roa. He was not Kamet with his scholarly friends and his work.

“Costis,” Kamet said, as if speaking to a child. “You still don’t understand how much he trusts you.”

“I swore an oath,” Costis said.

“All the Guard did. Yet, you alone, he sent to steal me.”

“If he doesn’t send for me, I’m done with fishing,” Costis said. “I’m sick of fish. I’ll turn scholar if I have to.”

“And you said you weren’t reckless,” Kamet teased.

Costis grinned.

* * *

The third thing that summer was that the letter did come, only a week later. Costis had worked the ship only two more days and then spent the rest of that week gathering and sketching plants again. It had been too long since he’d done so, and he was surprised at how much he still enjoyed it.

Kamet spoke to one of the monks and Costis spent an afternoon gathering a basket full of roots for the temple at the monk’s request. He was ready to spend another day in the slanting fields north of the temple when the messenger came.

He took the short sheaf of folded papers and paid the messenger a coin, and sent him on his way with a letter Kamet had left by the door. All the new letters were addressed to Kamet, save one, in Aris’ messy scrawl. Costis tore it open and scanned the page, and felt his heart sinking. Perhaps it was too soon, the letter written too long ago— surely if he was being recalled and there were rumors, Aris would mention it.

It wasn’t until that evening, when Kamet was reading with his face close to the paper to make out the words— Relius wrote in a small, fine script— that Costis knew.

Kamet, without glancing up, said, “There is a postscript for you. It’s in another hand.”

He handed the letter to Costis, who tried to not take in any of the words before the postscript, which was slanted the wrong way, written with a left hand.

_Costis: You have the seal, idiot. Order yourself home. -A._

Costis stared.

“Do you still have it?” Kamet asked, hesitantly.

“No,” Costis said, his heart now certainly sunk. Then, suspicion stirred. He stood up and left the kitchen, for the locked trunk in his room. The key turned in the lock, he flung the lid open, and dug for the king’s gold— their emergency purse. They’d done so well for simple life they’d not needed to touch it in months. He spilled it out on the bed, and there among the coins buried at the bottom was the earring with the tiny seal of Attolis.

“Well?” Kamet called from the other room.

“Gods damn him,” Costis muttered under his breath, before more loudly replying, “I’ve found it.”

“So,” Kamet said. “You’re going.”

“I hate him so much,” Costis complained, dropping his head against the doorframe between bedroom and kitchen. He pushed the silver hook of the earring through his lobe. “I’ll leave in five days. I can settle things with the landlord and help you move your things.”

“Go the day after tomorrow,” Kamet urged. “I can settle things. The monks will help me move. You forget that details and arrangements are my life’s work.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me,” Costis grumbled, turning anyway to begin to pack. He thought there wasn’t much until he opened a drawer and realized how full it was. He swore and glanced longingly at the chest at the foot of his bed, the lid thrown back. He could travel light and leave the rest with Kamet.

“Oh, I am,” Kamet said easily. “I grow weary of you, and your moping.”

Costis stepped back out of the room, a tunic in his hands. “I _will_ miss you,” he said. “I’ll write often, and visit when I can.”

“I will miss you, as well,” Kamet said, taking more care than necessary to recrease the letter. His brown, scarred fingers moved slowly. “You have been a good friend to me, Costis Ormentiedes.”

“And you to me, Kamet Kingnamer,” Costis said. He covered the distance, hesitated, and bent to kiss the top of Kamet’s head. The other man froze, then grabbed for Costis’ hand without facing him. He clung to it, and Costis knew then how much it was costing Kamet to let him go. A pang sharper than broken ribs made his chest ache, and he nearly changed his mind on the spot. They stood that way for several minutes, without moving, and Costis could barely speak around the tightness in his throat.

“You are an honorable man,” Kamet said.

“As are you,” Costis replied.

“Every day you get a little better at lying. I’m not sure I like it,” Kamet chided, loosening his grip and letting Costis’ hand go.

“I wasn’t lying,” Costis said.

Kamet didn’t argue though he made a short scoffing noise, and began trimming his pens. Costis went back to packing.

Their only other goodbye was almost without words, a tight hug on the docks. Costis wasn’t looking forward to time on a ship, but it was the fastest route. He patted Kamet on the shoulder when they parted, with a low, “Be well.”

“And you,” Kamet ordered in return. He looked as if he might say more, but then bit his lip and shook his head, and waved Costis away.

Costis walked up a gangplank and then he was on his way home, another home left behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

In the past two years, Costis had spent a scant few months at the palace. It looked mostly unchanged to his appraising eye, and he found empty quarters without much trouble. It wasn’t his old room, but the leather curtain was the same and the space was identical. He hadn’t brought much with him, after all, and he went to hunt for faces he knew after stowing it in the room. 

He didn’t see Aristogiton until dinner, when he was nearly knocked over by the other man slamming into him and engulfing him in a tight embrace. Aris slapped the back of his head, next.

“You might have mentioned you were on your way,” Aris said, sounding put out as they took their trenchers of food to a table. “I guessed you’d come back, but a warning would have been nice.”

“You guessed?” Costis asked, taking a seat on a bench in the hall. 

“It figures you’d somehow know before me,” Aris complained. “I shouldn’t be too jealous, though. I don’t especially want to be sent sprinting around the world.”

“Know _what_?” Costis demanded, feeling more and more lost.

“The Queen is with child,” Aris said, looking confused. “Isn’t that why you’re back? When Teleus said you were returning, right after the formal announcement, I thought for certain that was why.”

“I hadn’t heard,” Costis said. He hadn’t heard the last time, either, until the court was in mourning. He’d worried for Attolis and Attolia every night of his visit home to the farm, then, sick with sympathy. 

“Well,” Aris said, tearing bread with his teeth. He spoke around the mouthful and Costis loved him and also missed Kamet’s quiet, mannered way of eating. “At least I get to tell _you_ something for once.”

It was five more days of wandering about before he saw the King. He couldn’t exactly go straight to him without some report or reason. Teleus refused to assign him anywhere, grumbling that he wouldn’t do it only to have to rearrange a century again when Costis was pulled from the unit. Teleus at least seemed certain that he would be. 

By the third day, Costis had no doubt the king knew he was back and would summon him eventually, but he also knew the king was the king and it was impossible to tell how long he’d be kept waiting. His faith was unshakeable, in both that Attolis would call for him and that he would make it as inconvenient as humanly possible. 

He contemplated taking naps just in case the King might engineer some way to interrupt it, and then felt foolish. There were no young recruits in the guard to train at the moment, and Costis could only spar with so many off-duty guards before his boredom was obvious. He wrote to Kamet and took a nap after all, by accident. The sky was growing dark when he woke, and there was still no summons. He was reluctant to go for drinks or wander far from the guard’s courtyard and risk missing the order.

The fifth day, he spent the morning wishing he’d just spent the extra days in Roa taking his time to pack. He ate breakfast with the guard about to go on shift. Aris invited him again to go out to one of the nearby bars after dark. He thought about going on a long walk outside the city walls, and was half-decided to do just that when he went back to his room for a satchel and paper, changed his mind, and cleaned all his weapons and armor instead.

Twice.

It was too soon to write Kamet again. He wrote to his sister, and then Teleus found him and sent him to clean the guns in the armory. Costis suspected it was pity, but the guns were too important to risk refusing an order about. He set his jaw and oiled one ramming rod after another.

The evening meal was more cajoling from Aris, more whispers that hushed when he walked by men and picked up as he walked away, and he longed for the little apartment and the fish stew and Kamet’s voice.

He had been homesick for a position that was no longer his, and likely never really was except in show and name. The only reason he didn’t regret coming back to Attolia was that his nights were still tarnished with dreams of his King dying, and Costis wanted to see him at least once to know he was safe.

It was ridiculous, because the king was surrounded by guards and attendants every day. Costis couldn’t do anything they weren’t already doing.

_And yet_ , that nagging little voice persisted, drowning out even the whispers in the mess hall. _Who else serves his god?_

Costis’ food turned to ash in his mouth, realizing he’d been in Attolia all of five days already and hadn’t once offered anything on the altar. It had started as a formality, something just to be safe. He suspected that Attolis’ god preferred stolen items but Costis hoped he would accept small tokens as a show of good faith since he wasn’t a thief himself. Kamet didn’t exactly, in his opinion, count.

There was something to do in the morning, then.

He left without giving Aris an answer and went back to his room. Maybe he’d go to the altar tonight— it wasn’t yet very dark. There was a coin he could take. 

The leather curtain swept to the side with a slight push of his hand, he stepped into the small room, and stopped.

The King of Attolia was sitting on the end of Costis’ bed, legs crossed like a small child waiting for a story. 

“Costis,” the king said, with a slight nod, as if this were a normal place to greet someone. 

“My King,” Costis said, glancing over his shoulder into the hall. He tugged the curtain shut and dropped to one knee, and bowed his head. “What are you doing here?”

“Did you have a good trip?” the king asked, as if he hadn’t heard.

“It was fine,” Costis said, rising to his feet.

“How was Roa?”

“Fine,” Costis said. 

“Costis,” the king said, a bit scoldingly. “I know you aren’t a man of many words, but surely you have more than five.”

“Are you asking for intelligence?” Costis asked, thinking of Kamet and his spyglass, watching the ships far off on the sea.

“I did expect you to have _some_ ,” the king said. His voice was a little dull, like he was trying to tease and his attention was straying. 

“I meant espionage,” Costis said. He closed his eyes and sighed, to try to cover the quick smile that curved his lips. He _had_ missed him, for all that Attolis annoyed him. The king probably could tell that he had to fight the impulse to smile, so he wasn’t sure how much good his restraint did. It still mattered that he used it.

“And I meant _how was it_. How was Roa? Did you see anything interesting?”

“Fish,” Costis said. 

“Relius mentioned fishing. I’ve heard the coast there is good for it. Did you and Kamet get along?”

“Swimmingly,” Costis said. 

He had the satisfaction of seeing a bright flash of a grin cross the king’s face. “Was that a joke, Costis?”

“If you want it to be,” Costis answered. He double checked the hall by ducking his head out and then pulling the curtain again. He studied the king, who looked, in his opinion, far too tired and pale. “Where’s your guard? Your attendants?”

“I escaped them,” the king said, leaning back with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Every nightmare Costis had had in the past several months flickered in a hellish composite and he had to blink and swallow hard.

“My king, you can’t do that,” Costis hissed. “It isn’t safe.”

“My dear Costis,” Attolis said. “Am I not safe with you? If this is your way of telling me your loyalties have changed, I would have preferred a letter.”

Costis stared at him, one hand already reaching for his sword to be at the ready. He strapped the belt and sheath around his waist, thinking about falling and falling and landing. It always hurt, but he hadn’t died yet.

“My loyalties remain the same, to you and your god,” he said, too serious and earnest to counter with a joke. It didn’t seem at all funny to him in that moment. “You are safe with me, on my life.”

The king looked at him for a long time, a returned stare, with an indiscernible glint in his eye. His brow was furrowed and he looked so much older than he had only six months before. 

“I have some things to discuss with you,” he said. “You won’t be seeing much of this room.”

“Costis? Costis!” a voice boomed from the hall, getting closer. It was Aris. “Are you coming with us?”

Costis whirled, trying to intercept in the hall, but it was too late. Aris was throwing the curtain aside.

“You vanished without a word. I’m hurt, dear. Come drink with us.” Aris leaned against the doorframe and Costis felt like a rabbit in a trap. Aris didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary in the room behind Costis, but he did catch sight of Costis’ face and his entire manner changed. He straightened. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“I feel ill,” Costis lied. “I was going to sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll come drink with you.”

“Should I get—”

“No,” Costis said, too abrupt and loud. He pressed a hand to his forehead and lowered his voice. “No. I think it was just bad wine. I’d brought some from Roa. I’m sure I’ll be well in the morning.”

“Alright,” Aris said doubtfully. He pulled the curtain back and Costis could hear his footsteps receding down the hallway.

Costis spun and surveyed the empty room.

It was empty. 

The only way out was through the doorway Aris had been standing in.

“You’re getting better at lying,” the disembodied voice of the king came from beneath the bed. “And by better, I mean, you thought of something to say. We’ll work up to convincing.”

The floor was hard against Costis’ knees when he knelt to see. Attolis was pressed against the wall, beneath the bed and in the darkest shadows. Costis could only make out the outline of him.

“I don’t want to be better at lying,” Costis lied.

“You improve by the second,” Attolis said.

“What do you mean I won’t be seeing this room much?” Costis asked, suddenly dreading being sent away again. 

“We do need to talk, but give me a moment. I’ve a terrible headache. The worst. My head’s going to pieces.”

“Are you bleeding? Recently injured?” Costis demanded.

“You’re so suspicious,” the king whined, shimmying out from beneath the bed. He crawled on top of it and sprawled out on his back. “No, and no. Let me close my eyes for a minute and we’ll talk.”

Costis surveyed him, hunting for any spreading crimson marks. Satisfied there were none, he was silent. 

A moment later, the king was faintly snoring. 

“My king,” Costis said.

There was no response.

“Attolis,” he tried again, in a harsh whisper. “Your Majesty.”

Experimentally, he prodded at the king’s shoulder with the tip of his scabbard. The king, he was fairly certain, slept armed with knives. 

A knife didn’t flash through the air to scar the scabbard, but the king shoved it away without opening his eyes. He mumbled, “Stop it,” and rolled over. 

Costis rocked back on his heels and waited. He checked the hall again after a while, held his breath when footsteps went by. At one point, he heard Aris in the distance, sounding loud and a little drunk, and prayed. A god must have been listening— maybe the king’s god, _his_ god now— because Aris never stopped by again. 

He wondered where Attolis meant to send him next, and if it would be disloyal to ask to be sent to Roa again after, if he wasn’t going to be kept in the palace. It made him uneasy, the thought of asking and the thought of being away at all. 

The air was always stuffy in the barracks rooms, but it grew chilled with late night. He glanced at the king in the dim room, lit only by an oil lamp, and frowned. Even in sleep, the king looked exhausted. He wondered, briefly, where he’d been sleeping and if Attolia was missing him tonight.

Panic drenched him like he’d been thrown underwater. It had been a long time since he’d felt as foolish as he did in that second, and his numb legs protested as he moved from the spot where he’d been standing guard. He leaned out into the hall, past the curtain, and hunted for someone, anyone. 

A young guard rounded the far corner and Costis hissed for his attention. The man looked up, bleary with sleep or drink, and approached.

“Teleus,” Costis said. “Get the captain and send him here. Tell him it’s urgent.”

“Lieutenant,” the man began. “It’s—”

“Go _now_ ,” Costis growled, and the man nodded curtly and left.

Though it was late, Teleus was fully dressed when Costis heard him coming and stepped out to meet him. 

“Good, you’re ready,” Teleus said. “I should have gotten you sooner.”

“For what?” Costis asked. 

Teleus glanced behind him and then bent his head closer to Costis’. 

“We don’t want to start an uproar, but the king is…missing. His guard came to me over an hour ago. We’ve been looking ever since. It’s not like him to vanish to this extent, not anymore. You might have a better idea where he’d go. Please gods, tell me you do.”

Teleus sounded stressed and Costis hoped he looked apologetic. He opened his mouth and Teleus cut him off.

“What?” Teleus’ gaze flicked to the curtain and his eyes widened and then narrowed. “No,” he said, firmly. “No. Gods damn everything. How long?”

He stepped around Costis and pushed the curtain aside just enough to peer in. His exhale was a frustrated huff of breath and he rubbed his forehead. 

“Since right after dinner,” Costis said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think to send word. I’m not sure he meant to sleep.”

“Hours,” Teleus said, disbelieving. He sounded like it physically pained him to speak. “Hours he’s been here and you didn’t think to…those idiots lied to me. They said he’d vanished only half an hour before.”

Costis shrugged and then braced his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said. “The fault is mine. Whatever the queen thinks—”

“The Queen _doesn’t know_ ,” Teleus whispered fiercely. “And unless she asks me directly, she isn’t going to. He’s the King. He can do what he wants.”

There was some vast realm of information in that and Costis felt he could only grasp at it while it slipped through his fingers. He needed time to put it together neatly. 

“How is she?” Costis asked. 

Teleus gave him a sharply appraising glare and then sighed, as a man resigned to the state of the world. 

“Well enough. She isn’t very happy with me right now. The king insisted on increasing the number of her guard, the best of our men, and I agreed. I’m glad you’re back, to be honest. If he’ll keep you near him, she might be less furious. For now, you don’t leave him unless he orders you away, do you understand?”

“Yes.” Costis nodded. 

“Good luck,” Teleus said, with a grimly wry twist to his mouth. “May the gods show you favor. I’m going to assign the worst duties I can think of to some frantic men.”

Costis didn’t think they could have done much better, if Attolis wanted to disappear, but it was the principle of the thing and he held his tongue from raising a defense. He was also mildly irritated himself, and unsettled, that Attolis was still being guarded by men he didn’t want around. He’d hoped that would have changed by now.

Teleus left and Costis went back through the curtain, half-expecting the king to be awake, or gone. He was neither. He still slept.

There was a small wooden chair against the wall. Costis sat down and spent the next few hours working very hard on not falling asleep. He tried remembering Kamet’s translated passages to distract himself from his heavy eyelids. There were a few he had memorized.

He wondered what it would be like to lose a child, and thought he’d steal anything to offer on the altar if the King and Queen were spared that grief visiting a second time. Even if he was caught soon after, it would be worth it. 

The dog watch passed and then a while after the barracks stirred with early morning activity, as men woke to eat and change the guard. 

On the bed, the king groaned. 

“Tell me I didn’t just sleep as long as I feel like I slept.”

“I’m not good at lying,” Costis said.

“Practice,” the king ordered, rubbing his eyes with his left hand. He rubbed at the arm above his hook next, and sat up. 

“You slept an hour,” Costis said. 

“Oh, shut up,” the king muttered. “Gods damn it. I had things to do last night.”

“You were tired,” Costis ventured, standing and willing the stiff ache out of his limbs. He poured water from the bedside pitcher into his cup and offered it. “It’s clean. Nobody knew you were going to be here.”

“Taste it first,” the king grumbled. “People were trying to kill you, too, if you remember.”

Costis raised the cup and drained half of it. 

The king’s eyes widened in alarm and then his expression shuttered into something angry. “What are you _doing_? I wasn’t serious. You can’t just drink things you’ve left sitting around.”

“It’s fine,” Costis said. “It isn’t poisoned. I can get fresh water if you’d prefer.”

“Not for me,” the king said. “For _you_.”

“Nobody is trying to poison me,” Costis said, with more certainty than he felt. 

“That you _know_ of,” the king retorted. 

“Poison isn’t going to kill me,” Costis said, with complete certainty. “We could warm up with sparring.”

“You’ve been back five days and you’re already trying to hit me again,” the king said. Whatever he was feeling or thinking was already slipped behind that mask. 

“I have to make up for lost time,” Costis said. 

“If I had known you were this funny, I might have kept you around longer.” The king yawned. “No. We aren’t sparring today. I have things to do. And you have a queen to guard.”

“Is that an order?” Costis asked, raising an eyebrow. 

He didn’t miss the dangerous spark in the king’s eyes, or his sharply fluid movement rising to his feet. He didn’t move like someone who had just slept for ten hours. 

“Costis,” the king said, his voice hard. “Anything I tell you to do is an order. Is there some confusion on this subject?”

“Teleus ordered me to guard you,” Costis said, daring to hope he wouldn’t be pressed for Teleus’ given exemptions. 

“He did, hm,” the king said. He ran his hand through his tangled curls. They were cut short again, and Costis wondered why. “Interesting. Who else knows I’m here?”

“No one,” Costis said. “They were in a panic, you know, looking for you. Those guards feared for their lives.”

“My queen?” 

Attolis sounded so calm as to be disinterested. Costis guessed there was something much stronger beneath the tone, well-hidden. He didn’t know how the king’s mind worked, but he knew it had vast depths. 

“She is unaware you were missing,” Costis said. He didn’t miss the little dip of the king’s shoulders in relief. “Teleus didn’t want to worry her.”

“Damn you,” the king said sharply. “Don’t tell me that. Don’t tell me things that make me want to like him again. I’m angry at him right now and want to stay that way.”

Costis wanted to fall over in bed and sleep. He’d had a long and boring night of trying to keep himself awake, alone, and he was hungry and tired. But he pushed it aside. The king was caving, and he didn’t like that, didn’t like what it meant if it was that easy.

The king threw back his head and exhaled at the ceiling. He rubbed his arm again, above the leather cuff of the hook. 

“Very well. A day guarding me, like a good captain’s pup, and then the Queen. You’ll be staying in her guard chambers. Let’s go, then. There’s much to do. You can tell me more about Roa.”

Costis followed him down the hall, past guards and their startled glances, and for the first time in months it felt like he could breathe without a weight on his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

Costis did not end up guarding the Queen.

He saw her that morning, when Attolis went straight from the barracks to her rooms, in the same clothes he’d slept in. Costis followed him all the way into the bedchamber where she was eating breakfast from a tray at a small round table, while attendants whisked in and out of the room. A guard stood at the door.

The king kissed his wife on the cheek and stole a piece of sliced fruit from her tray. He gave a cheery good morning and sat across from her, nodding over his shoulder.

“Look who I’ve found, dear.”

Costis bowed his head to her when she looked at him. 

“Good,” she said, voice firm. “No, don’t— have Phresine send for a peach for you, or your own tray from your room if you like.”

Attolis leaned back in the chair and crossed his ankles, and took a bite of a pastry spread with sweet honey. “I didn’t want the peach,” he said.

“You’re incorrigible,” the Queen said mildly. “I’m glad you have the sense at least to improve your guard.”

“Oh, Costis? He’s just with me for the day. Teleus gave him orders, if you can believe that. The audacity. I’m afraid our captain oversteps, ordering his men around. I’m adding him to your guard after today.”

There was a chill silence in the room. The king looked entirely unbothered, and went on eating. 

“No,” Attolia said. 

“No?” Attolis echoed. 

Costis said nothing. 

“No,” Attolia repeated firmly. “My guard is sufficient. Yours isn’t.”

“I disagree. I think your guard could be _more_ sufficient.” The king set the pastry back down, minus the single bite he’d taken. 

“It could be,” Attolia said. “But it won’t be.”

The king was looking out a window.

“You slept,” Attolia said. She picked up the pastry and began eating, calm as stone. Costis couldn’t imagine anyone ever moving her— before he’d known just how stubborn and clever Attolis was, it seemed the most ridiculous impossibility that he could ever manage it.

“Yes,” Attolis replied curtly. 

They sat in silence while Attolia ate. Costis didn’t move, except to blink fiercely to chase encroaching sleep away. It would be easier to stay awake once he was in motion. In here, it was quiet and warm and if he’d been sitting it would have been a futile struggle.

“How are you feeling?” Attolis asked, his tone neutral. “Did you sleep well?”

“I would be better knowing you intended to keep a capable guard,” the queen replied, her voice sharp like cut granite. It was hard without being hot, and it cracked through the room like a thrown glass all the same.

Costis watched the king watch her for a long span of breaths, and then the king shrugged a shoulder. 

“Very well,” he said gently. 

“Don’t handle me like I’m porcelain,” she warned, when he rose to his feet. He hesitated when leaning to kiss the top of her head, and ducked lower and kissed her on the mouth. She pulled back at first, and then leaned in. 

Costis looked away, at a wall tapestry.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he heard the king say when they parted. 

The queen was trying not to laugh, and shoved his shoulder without force. 

“Go,” she said. “Go eat something, my king.”

“If it pleases my queen,” Attolis said, without a hint of mockery. 

Costis followed him out of the room and through the antechambers. The king was eating another slice of peach by the time they emerged into the hall. 

Back in the king’s own room, there was a breakfast tray waiting on the table among some scattered papers and inkwells. Hilarion was waiting beside it, and the king waved him away. 

No one said a word about the king’s disappearance. Costis guessed they were judging mood before scolding him. Philologos came in the room behind them and busied himself near a wardrobe; Ion was at Costis’ elbow. He cast the guard a sidelong glance and Costis was surprised to see not the disdain he expected but some open relief.

“My king,” Ion said. “Do you require anything?”

Attolis looked at the tray and threw himself into the chair. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, and then pressed his lips together and scowled. 

“No,” he said. Then, he looked up at Costis. “Oh. I suppose you need to eat.”

Costis said nothing. He could survive a day without much, if he needed to, even if it wasn’t his preference. 

“Don’t play the martyr,” the king said to him. And then to Ion: “Find something for Costis to eat.”

Ion bowed and left.

“Thank you,” Costis said. He reached forward and took the cup of water the king had just finished pouring with his left hand and took a drink of it.

The king’s face twisted in a nearly comical expression of rage and shock.

Costis set it down. “It tastes fine, my king.”

“Costis,” Attolis said, in a hollow tone. 

The mix of genuine fear and impulsive daring were making Costis’ head feel light. He didn’t sway, however, beneath the king’s glare.

“Safety, my king. Merely checking for poison.”

“I ought to have you thrown in prison,” the king said. His shoulders were hunched forward in a definite sulk. A year ago, it would have annoyed Costis.

It still did.

Costis also knew there was actual power behind that threat. He doubted the king would follow through, but it was within his right to do so. 

“You _stole_ from me,” the king said. He sounded suddenly too pleased for Costis’ comfort. “Not with much grace or secrecy, but we can work on that.”

“I’d rather not,” Costis said, alarmed. He would almost prefer prison to the king making him some sort of project— again. 

“Hm,” the king said, as if his thoughts were already elsewhere. 

Costis’ palms sweated but he didn’t regret checking the water. The impulse for teasing was likely overfamiliar, but he also was comforted by the clear taste of plain water. There was no poison in it, he was certain. He didn’t want to think about the prospect of the king being poisoned, nor how likely it was. 

The day went on. Attolis, it seemed, was everywhere now. Far from the drifting activity and overlong hours of struggling to dress in suitable clothes of early months, he now dressed quickly with attendants who gave him no difficulty. Then, he was in court, and meeting with ministers, then barons, then writing letters, and more meetings, and court again. 

Costis took a first swallow of his wine at lunch and got no more than an irritated glance. 

Nearly every moment of the king’s time was claimed by something and moved through it with far less whining than Costis would have expected. It was like watching a plow horse throw its shoulders into the harness and pull long monotonous rows one after the other. 

That shifted in late afternoon. Attolis complained loudly nearly the entire time he was writing a letter— Costis didn’t understand how he managed to get a single coherent word down, while complaining so much. 

While dressing for formal dinner, he demanded Costis recite some of Kamet’s newer translations. Costis fumbled through a few passages he remembered but he knew he’d not done them very well. The king looked thoughtful. 

“Ask him to send a copy,” he said. “I know that faulty meter wasn’t his doing.”

“Yes, my king,” Costis agreed, flushing red. He was tired and furious, that this beloved activity of his former evenings was being gutted with no preparation. Sheer willpower kept his tongue, along with the knowledge that Kamet’s work didn’t deserve his disservice.

“Never mind for now,” the king said. “Tell me more about Roa. Relius mentioned you collected plants.”

“I did,” Costis said. He thought of his notes, tucked into the bag he had packed to bring home. He hadn’t been able to leave them behind. 

The king looked at him and Costis had the distinct impression he was disappointed, but he turned away and didn’t press Costis for more. He adjusted the straps on his cuff, absorbed in the next task.

“Wolfsbane,” Costis blurted out. He cursed himself for being so slow, and hoped he wasn’t guessing badly. “There was a local plant similar to wolfsbane. The flowers were white, not purple.”

If he’d thrown a shroud over Attolis and then ripped it away, the effect would have been much the same. The king’s movement became quicker, more lively, while he spun on one heel and let Ion work a row of buttons.

“Go on,” he said, to Costis. “Most people who study plants tend to notice more than just the color.”

“There was a monk at the temple who acted as the local physician,” Costis said. “He made an extract from the root to treat toothache and issues of the joints.”

“Did you ever use it?” 

“No,” Costis said. He thought. “Yes.”

“Which is it?” 

“Yes,” Costis said. He had drifting scrap of memory of being told what was in the bitter tea Kamet made on the monk’s instructions, when he was coughing too hard to sleep. Every cough had been agony on his ribs, and the tea had taken the edge off. 

“Yes,” the king echoed. “For amusement?”

“No,” Costis said. 

“I heard you were growing reckless,” the king said. He was studying his embroidered blue shirt in the mirror, but he met Costis’ eyes there above his shoulder.

Costis wanted to tell him the truth, but found that he wanted to expose Kamet even less. He had thought it would be an easy thing, to tell the king, and that surely Kamet would suffer nothing for it. Something he couldn’t quite identify stopped him, and not for lack of trust in his king. 

Attolis was clearly not satisfied today with silence or partial answers. Costis knew if he tried to lie and agree he had been reckless, the king would know before he’d finished speaking, with the way Attolis was watching his face right now. 

“I fell,” he said. “From a ship.”

“Into the water?”

“Onto the dock,” he said. He did not add _and then the water_. Nor did he add, _from the mast_.

“Interesting,” Attolis said, with a frown. “That does sound reckless.”

He said it like he didn’t quite believe it.

“I didn’t know you were interested in plants,” Costis said, hoping to change the subject. 

“I’m not,” the king said. He smirked in a way that made him look younger, or perhaps just as young as he really was.

Attolis went to dinner, Costis not far behind him.

He didn’t dare approach the table to taste the king’s drink that night, and Attolis made sure he had Costis’ attention before slightly raising the cup in mocking salute. Costis had the self-control to not roll his eyes, and the king pretended to be examining something on the side of his cup when a baron in attendance looked curiously at him. 

After dinner, Hilarion showed Costis the closet-sized room with a cot in the king’s chambers. He wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t _been_ a storage closet at some recent point, but he was too tired to care. Someone had brought his things from the barracks and set them in a messy pile on the end of the cot.

He’d been with the king all day and had never heard an order to make the arrangements, so someone— Teleus, the Queen, the king’s own attendants— had taken it into their own hands to make sure he stayed near the king. He was too tired to wonder at who, and he moved the things to the floor, fell onto the cot and slept like the dead.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the next few weeks, Costis fell into a routine with the king. He acted as his personal guard during the day, and sometimes late at night. The day was full of meetings and court appointments and matters of state, letter writing and consulting various ministers. 

Where the king had been reluctant to rule before, he inhabited the role now. Attolia was noticeably absent from large parts of the day, and the king frequently spent time writing letters or talking to her in her chambers or her smaller private garden. She did not seem in the best mood, and Petrus was often nearby. 

Whether or not the king secretly slipped away to her chambers at night, Costis couldn’t say and was reluctant to guess. There were also nights Attolis woke Costis with a tap on the shoulder and then would wander the palace or the higher walls, with Costis alone trailing after him.

He suspected the king’s preference would have been utter solitude, and that taking Costis was submission to a promise he had made. It must have been given somewhat willingly, for him to go along with it. 

If the king had plots or secret plans, they were kept secret even then. Half the times Costis followed him, blinking sleep from his eyes, the king merely sat on top of walls and gazed into the night. Occasionally, he spoke to Costis or asked questions, but more often he was utterly silent.

Costis didn’t plead with him to get down.

Other nights, he might go visit Relius. Costis was left at the end of a room then, within view, and within hearing range of all but the quietest whispers. Mostly, they talked about poetry and plays. The king either had an uncanny sense for when Relius was working late, or Relius never slept at night— he was always up when they reached his rooms in the palace.

Costis was only drawn into their conversation once, when the king called to him to ask if he happened to see any stage plays in Medea. Costis told them, in halting words at first still addled with sleep, of the play by the docks. They drilled him, question after question, about names and lines and actors and crowds. 

He did his best to answer, dragging up memories of the performance and the gaps in his understanding when he missed words or phrases, and of Kamet’s explanation later. It felt, mentally, like being rapped with the side of the king’s wooden practice sword— embarrassing, infuriating, _motivating_. It pushed him to try and remember more clearly, to give sharper and more accurate answers. 

Other than that, they talked as if he wasn’t there.

The king talked to Costis when it was the two of them alone, or when the attendants were nearby, and he also literally kept hitting Costis with the side of his wooden sword. They didn’t go down to the courtyard where the guard trained, but several times a week they’d end up in a room where the furniture and floor had been cleared for sword work. Costis wondered if it was where he’d once drilled with Ornon. 

Attolis wanted to stay in good form and Costis, as far as he knew, was now the king’s only regular sparring partner. It meant Costis nursed a lot of bruises and learned a lot of things, very quickly, in an attempt to keep up. He wasn’t bad with a sword. The king was better.

When Attolis found out Costis had taught Kamet knife and short sword forms, and that he’d watched knife fights in Medea and how men there trained to move, they added knife fights. The king produced wooden knives from somewhere, slender ones and curved ones. 

The king was an excellent swordsman, and with knives he hardly seemed human at all. He avoided using the hook, Costis noticed, but his left hand had fingers that flew. He only slowed down when making Costis show him, again and again, the ways Costis had seen men fight in Medea. The king mirrored the motions until they were fluid in his left hand. 

It felt unfair to fight him when he would only use one hand, and when Costis suggested handicapping himself, the king gave him such a withering look that Costis nearly threw the wooden knife down despite all his training to treat each blade as real.

“Then use your right arm,” Costis said, voice rising. He was frustrated just enough by the lopsided match, even if the king was managing, that he forgot for a second just how cataclysmic drawing attention to that could be. He’d done it once already suggesting the handicap, and the second the words were out of his mouth he could almost hear his dismissal— from the guard, from the palace. 

“No,” the king said shortly. Oddly enough, he seemed less angered by Costis pointing out that he could use the hook than he was by the suggestion of a handicap. “I won’t risk it.”

“You’re too good to cut me by accident,” Costis said. 

“Of course I am,” Attolis said. “I’m worried _you_ might cut yourself.”

“How did you practice with Ornon?” Costis asked. 

“A wooden hook,” the king answered. 

“Then—”

“No,” the king said, in a word that rang with authority.

Costis dropped the matter without another word. He was surprised he’d gotten as far as he did unscathed, and was prepared to never mention it again. 

The king promptly disarmed him, the wooden knife clattering on the floor, and ended the session. 

It was only two days later when they went to spar before breakfast and a prosthetic with a wooden hook was sitting on a chair in the room, waiting for them. Costis gave the king a worried glance, knowing they’d been alone and unsure who the king might have mentioned it to that was now also pushing. 

But Attolis gestured to the hook while shoving his sleeve up, and unfastening the leather buckle of a strap. 

“I’ll need help fitting it on,” he said stiffly, not looking at Costis. “The straps have to be tight.”

 _Oh,_ Costis thought, feeling horribly stupid.

“Of course, my king,” Costis said, aloud.

The king set the metal hook down and shoved the stump of his arm into the leather cuff of the wooden one, while Costis lined up practice knives before turning to him. 

“This one,” the king said, tapping a strap with a finger.

The skin beneath the strap was indented from the one he’d just removed, reddened and rough looking. Costis suspected if he ran a finger along the mark, it would feel like calloused skin. He threaded the leather through the buckle, tightened. 

“Sir?”

“Yes,” the king said gruffly. “It’s fine.”

Costis stepped back, with the sense that he’d been too close, though he hadn’t been any closer than necessary. The king managed the other straps on his own, with his left hand.

The wooden hook became a routine part of knife sparring, and with time the act of helping with the hook became normal. Costis almost wished the king had accepted his offer of a handicap— once the option to improve fighting with the hook was there, the king took it ruthlessly and without mercy. 

The king stayed in top form, Costis improved marginally, and time went on. 

Reviewing the plants Costis had found in Roa became a habitual topic of evening discussion. If he didn’t volunteer enough information, Attolis would ask questions until satisfied. Costis didn’t know how the details were at all relevant to the king, but he was glad this at least was one area where he didn’t feel like he was constantly on the verge of exposing his own idiocy. 

Costis continued to taste the king’s drinks before him, at every meal but dinner, and Attolis could have ended it with a word and never did. On the surface, it was a joke. More than once, he got a smile or laugh out of Attolis or listened to loud complaints about the quality of the drink being wasted. It turned into something else, over time. The king began waiting, after Costis drank something, and not drinking until some time had passed. Costis chalked it up to paranoia, but it was a paranoia that he shared, and it ceased having even the veneer of a joke. 

His time to himself was very little. When the evening guard took over, Costis could go eat or scrub himself in the bathhouse. Sometimes he was dismissed when the king was with Attolia, and he’d see Aris off duty or find food or chat with Teleus.

Weeks turned into three months. Letters from Kamet informed him that Kamet was doing well at the temple, and enjoying his tutoring work. The other man hinted, in his derisive way, that he missed their evenings together. Costis did, too. 

But his nightmares were less frequent, and he found that more than merely loyal duty being satisfied, he enjoyed his time with the king. It was not unlike his older cousins setting races and Costis closing the gap a little more every time they sprinted across the fields. He knew he’d likely never catch up, but he could get closer, and the challenge was engaging. He couldn’t imagine what had ever made him think the king was stupid or corrupt, or why on earth he’d hit him— and then the king would do or say something that made Costis want to hit him all over again. 

It was, on the whole, much better than a fishing boat.

The court saw very little of Attolia as her pregnancy progressed. She made formal appearances at dinners and meetings, briefly attended some court appointments, and retired often to her chambers. She always had a doubled guard with her, a rotation of Teleus’ best men. 

The king had Costis. 

Only a fool would have failed to see how the responsibility fell on Costis’ shoulders, and the weight of that duty. He knew it was by the king’s own order that she had the bulk of the guard they trusted in the palace, and that Teleus had supported him. He suspected Attolia had tried to budge them both and was glad he had missed that conflict.

Attolis needed to be able to depend on him, and not have more reasons to worry. He needed to not send Costis away again.

That’s why Costis didn’t tell him about the roof tiles.


	6. Chapter 6

Costis hurried toward the bathhouse during an hour he had to himself before the formal dinner. Attolis was with his Queen, having dressed early and gone to her. He’d dismissed Costis with a distracted air, likely preoccupied with the visiting Attolian barons and the Braeling dignitary. At least, that’s what Costis assumed. He was never really sure what the king was thinking.

There was an hour to scrub himself clean and polish his armor so he looked his sharpest for the dinner, with so many eyes on his king and queen. Those eyes shouldn’t be drawn to him because he was scuffed and stinking, a disgrace to his country. 

He was beneath one of the higher towers on the way down stairs when a voice called his name behind him. He turned toward the sound.

Roof tiles crashed to the pathway where he had just been about to step, heavy and with jagged broken edges from impact. He stumbled back with a shout, tripping his heel on the stair behind, scrambling away from the noise and mess.

He caught himself on the wall at his side, breathing hard and staring at the broken roof tiles. He looked up, and saw no one. He looked back up the stairs, where he had heard his name called. There was no one there, either. 

If he hadn’t slowed to look behind, the tiles would have hit him. 

There was no one behind him, and it would be useless to sprint up stairs and toward the interior of the tower— by the time he made it, anyone there would be gone. He nearly went anyway. 

After a moment, he went on to the bathhouse, trying to still his shaking hands. He wasn’t surprised someone was still trying to kill him. He was furious. The steam did little to relax his tense muscles, and he was glad the bathhouse was nearly deserted at this hour. He nodded to the few he saw and spoke to no one, not trusting himself to speak evenly or calmly. 

But instead of the crash, or the broken tiles inches from his boots, it was the voice that lingered in his mind, a fierce stamp of sound. The more he tried to convince himself he’d misheard something or that it had been someone he knew in the palace, the more loudly it echoed. 

He left the bathhouse still on edge and looking over his shoulder at turns and up toward the sky at walls. There were ways to be careful and Costis knew them. He’d simply have to be more wary than he had been of late. 

Planning to be careful was little comfort when it was his own name that haunted him. He was grateful, but had the unnerving sense that he’d brushed by more power than he could comprehend, and that the danger had not been the tiles. It made him feel very small.

Time in his hour remained and he decided not to let the debt linger any longer than it had to, without thanks. He wiped his armor down without properly polishing it, with a chest and arms that were heavy and cold. Then, he took off out of the courtyard toward the outer palace walls, mindless of the fact that everything he owned was far away up inside the palace proper and in the king’s chambers.

He was driven to the little altar, where he stared at the little display of offerings and realized he was empty-handed. Without a second of hesitation, he set an earring on the altar, one he hadn’t paid for, and hoped he wasn’t thanking the wrong god and angering another. There was doubt, but there was also conviction. Costis wasn’t sure enough to chase off all his doubt but confident enough to leave the earring. It was a little thing to offer in the sight of the god, no doubt, but a big thing to Costis and left him in another debt. He hoped that counted for something. 

Though he was pressed for time, he stopped on the way through the older Attolian temple afterward. He passed by the altar to the goddess of mercy. The ten cups were still there, a fortune in the open. No one would dare touch it. It was a mismatched set— Costis had poured nearly all he had into the one, and left it, and then the king had given him a sack with a knowing and amused look.

Costis had left the other nine, from the palace treasury. He wasn’t fond of being in debt, especially a debt he had no hope of ever repaying, but he’d swallowed his pride and set the cups on the altar because the king was still alive. If it was his lot to forever be in debt to gods and kings, then he figured that didn’t make him different from any ordinary man— just more aware of the depths of what he owed, perhaps.

He made it back into the palace just in time, the click of his boot heels on the smooth floors a staccato until he reached the queen’s chambers. He fell in with her guard and resolved to address his new debt later, after dinner. 

The atmosphere at the dinners was never casual but tonight there was a tension clinging to everything. The Braeling was returning to his own country from Medea, and he was formally polite but did not appear to be in the most charitable mood. The visiting barons were men who had not much liked the Queen in the past and gave only little indication this had changed at all.

Costis kept his gaze roaming over the crowd while he stood at attention, his body still and ready to move quickly. The servants went around pouring wine to accompany the first course and the King put his hand up, and gestured someone forward.

It took Costis too long to realize the gesture was for him. Attolis turned just enough that Costis started forward. When he was close enough, he bent his head to the king’s, in case whatever message was sensitive. 

“Drink it,” the king said severely, without looking at him. 

Costis, who had tasted every breakfast and midday meal drink for weeks, paused only in the slightest at this change in routine. Then, he took the wine cup and raised it to his lips, keenly aware of the sudden hush in the room and all the eyes on him. He stepped back after setting the cup down, his nerves humming.

It was ten minutes before Attolis glanced back at him and met his eyes. The king’s face was calm and untroubled, but he must have been horrifically paranoid. Costis felt no different than he had the rest of the day. He nodded. Only then, did Attolis drink. The Braeling was watching him carefully and Costis watched the Braeling, then the barons, fury and fear burning in his gut. It was only a feeling though, and not any ill-effect from poison. 

Dinner ended without mishap. 

Costis resolved to bear the burden of debt alone for a while longer, and not mention the roof tiles. The king made it clear he didn’t want to talk about the wine at dinner and he made the same order to Costis every night the barons dined with them. 

Costis didn’t write to Kamet about the tiles or the wine, though he’d thought he might, because he couldn’t decide how to describe the voice or how to talk about any of it. He was also worried Kamet would write to Relius and share information Costis wanted kept from the king– along with the king’s paranoia, Costis felt panicked at the thought that Attolis would send him back to Roa or to somewhere new, to keep him safe.

Again.

So, he left it out of his next letter, and was glad when the barons left for their homes. He thought Attolis might go back to the way things were before, but that same night at dinner, he was waved forward again. 

He absolutely could not, and would not, tell the king about the roof tiles. Attolis needed him.

Teleus was not happy about the cups, and tried to talk the king into employing an official cup bearer if it was such a concern. Attolis wouldn’t hear of it, and it was the Queen who ordered Teleus to leave the matter alone. Relius also spoke to Teleus, but Costis didn’t know which side of the matter he landed on because nobody told him.

For his part, Costis raised every cup to his lips without fear, and found relief in knowing this was another way the king was protected.


	7. Chapter 7

The room was quiet, only the scratch of pen against paper as the king worked. Costis fought a yawn, where he was standing near the door, and tried to inconspicuously roll his shoulder to ease the ache out of it. He had lost a sparring match, and badly– right as he thought he was holding his own, he’d stabbed into suddenly empty space and the next thing he knew he was on his back.

Attolis had been entirely too pleased with himself.

“I was hoping that would work,” he had said.

“I wish you’d hope in someone else’s direction,” Costis had grumbled, climbing to his feet. 

He’d said the wrong thing. The king’s face had shuttered closed, a blank boredom replacing the smirk. Costis felt the sting of it and had tried to apologize, but the apology was waved away with a blatant lie: “It’s nothing.”

There were arguments to pick with the king and times to pick them. Costis had gotten the sense that wasn’t one of those times.

They’d finished sparring and back in his chambers, the king began working on letters. To whom, Costis didn’t know. 

At midday, Hilarion brought a tray in and set it on the desk. The king said a curt thank you, but kept writing. Costis waited.

“Go ahead, Costis,” the king said, frowning at the slanted words. He dipped his pen in the ink, bit his lower lip, and continued writing.

Costis took a sip of the mulberry-red wine, wiped the edge of the cup with a cloth set on the tray, and returned to his spot by the door. It tasted the same as it ever did, if a bit sweeter. That happened with some vintages. He’d grown up watching his uncle’s small grape vineyard produce varying qualities of grape from years of good weather or bad.

His lips didn’t sting, his heart didn’t seize and stop. He rolled his shoulder again. The joint was going to take a day or two to feel alright, he thought.

Attolis finished writing and waited for the ink to dry before carefully folding the paper he’d been working on, and setting it aside. He tucked it beneath a paperweight and capped his ink. 

The ache in Costis’ shoulder was spreading. He thought this was important, probably, but it was hard to grasp why. It eluded him, dancing out of reach just as he thought it close. It had spread through his entire chest by the time Attolis finished the platter of fresh vegetables and yogurt. 

His stomach seized with pain. It was hot with nausea and he couldn’t take a deep enough breath to fill his lungs. That was a stupid amount of trouble for a shoulder to give him, and it wasn’t until Attolis’ fingers wrapped around the cup that the fog blew clear from his mind. 

“Don’t,” he choked out. It was a quiet rasp, and his second attempt was louder and harsher: _“Stop.”_

Attolis jerked his head up and in Costis’ direction, eyes widening in alarm. He slammed the cup down and stood so quickly his chair tipped over on the thick rugs. 

“Costis,” he said, sounding for a moment very scared and very young. Then, he raised his voice and roared for an attendant. 

They poured into the room just as Costis felt his legs go weak. He buckled and fell to his knees, coughing into his arm. Flecks of vibrant red blood stood out on the shining greaves on his forearms, mingled with spittle. Attolis was shouting again, for Petrus, and a half dozen people were talking at once and it blurred to a distant drone in Costis’ ears.

A hand was on his shoulder, then the side of his face. Someone was trying to look at him. He raised his head and it was the heaviest thing he’d ever lifted.

It was Attolis, kneeling in front of him, gaze fiercely dark and angry. He was speaking and Costis didn’t hear a word.

 _He’s terrified_ , Costis thought, confused. 

He twisted when the stinging bile rose up his throat, just in time to avoid vomiting on the king and instead on the edge of the woven rug. When he tried to suck in a breath after, he couldn’t get air. It was like he’d been plunged underwater. 

Frantic, like a man drowning, he grabbed at the air and seized hold of something. It was the king’s forearm and he couldn’t let go, even while part of his mind ordered him to do just that. His knuckles were a bloodless white and he tried and tried and tried to breathe, while black stole across his vision.

There was a flicker of trailing white cloth and then he passed out.

* * *

Eugenides paced.

Irene watched him from where she sat, calm and sedate in contrast with his agitated and constant motion. His left hand rubbed his arm, right above the leather cuff.

She had arrived only minutes after hearing the news. An attendant had run from the king’s rooms to her own, panting while delivering his message despite the short distance. By the time she arrived, Petrus was already there. One of her guards and an attendant lifted Costis onto the king’s bed. His armor was discarded on the floor.

Petrus was quickly measuring something out, and Irene could see the rapid, shallow rise and fall of chest, so she knew he wasn’t dead. The third time Eugenides yelled at the doctor, and he startled and stammered a reply, Irene ordered everyone else out of the room.

“Do you require aid?” she asked Petrus, her voice slicing through the sudden quiet.

“Yes,” he said. 

“Choose one,” Irene had told Eugenides. He’d looked at her and the flash of raw emotion on his face cut her to the quick. She knew he still had nightmares about his cousins. He gathered himself and stood a little straighter.

“Philologos,” he said. He repeated it more loudly, and the attendant came back into the room.

“Assist Petrus,” Irene ordered him. She’d looked at Eugenides. “My king?”

He was staring at his guard, whose face was pale and lips bluish. Irene had only a reasonable hope in her physician’s skills, and unconsciously she cradled her abdomen with one hand. There was a gentle curve there, firm though it wasn’t yet large. Her chest ached for her king– she cared for the guard as she cared for all her men, as their queen, but she knew Eugenides bore a special trust and friendship with this one. Attolis didn’t need to watch him die.

“My king,” she said again, sharply. “We should give Petrus room to work.”

If Eugenides dug his heels in and refused to leave, she wouldn’t fight him. She’d have no hope of changing his mind and didn’t wish to argue. But he nodded, tearing his gaze away from the bottle Petrus was shaking. 

“Hold his head still,” Petrus said to Philologos.

Eugenides had left the room ahead of her. 

Now, he paced in the antechamber immediately outside his own room. The door was shut and from within they could hear the ugly sound of retching. 

Irene didn’t have to ask to know what had happened. Costis had tasted the wine, as he had been doing every meal for months, and then Eugenides hadn’t. She felt ice in her veins, like snowmelt from the mountains of Eddis rushing down into Attolia’s fields. 

Once, she had wielded poison. She remembered the burn of it on her lips, and she touched them with two fingers, selfishly wondering. Would Eugenides fear her in this way, too, now, by association? Would he look at her hands and see his dead guard? 

She knew he still thought about it. He had told her only weeks before about his plan to have Costis taste his wine at dinner in front of the Braeling. She had agreed– it was better for the Braeling to go home and report that the king no longer trusted her, and perhaps never truly had, now that an heir was on the way. They needed the Greater Powers to think they were still on the brink of instability, and in need of stronger protections against Medea, to keep their own Attolian resources from being stretched too thin.

In her mind, it was difficult not to see her dead first husband, his face instead that of Eugenides. The stricken rigor, shocked and in agony; the skin flecked with purplish dots; the bloody froth dripping from his chin.

Did he know what it looked like? Would he fear her, if he learned this way?

Irene didn’t move. She wondered if this would be a thing that drove Eugenides back behind the veil he’d shrouded his life in before Costis had returned from Roa, and if it would be worse this time if he couldn’t stand the sight of her. He had been so stressed and lonely and exhausted, aside from their brief times truly alone together, when he was guarded by men he didn’t fully trust and keeping her out of court as much as possible.

She’d nearly taken Petrus’ head for his suggestion of that restriction, but caution and curdling fear had kept her from acting on the impulse. She had thought she’d known sorrow, once.

It turned out she’d only known kinds of it, and she learned another kind by blood and stained sheets and the gaunt shadows of Eugenides’ face.

That sorrow was not one she desired to ever know again.

Eugenides paced, paused at the door listening, and then paced more.

The door at the opposite end of the room flew open and Teleus came in, red from running and flanked by two lieutenants. 

“I came as soon as I was told. What happened? Is he…”

He trailed off when his eyes landed on the king. Irene could see the storm brewing before it struck, and she rose to her feet. She watched the relief on Teleus’ face, then the flash of understanding, and then, finally, the fury.

“Costis,” he breathed in a snarl “I _told_ you to let me arrange for a cupbearer.”

Irene had seen Eugenides when stabbed before. The way his face was drawn in response to this did not remind her of that. It reminded her of the way he had looked, silent and writhing, when she had taken his hand.

“Teleus,” she said harshly. 

It might have been unnecessary. Teleus had seen it, too, even if he hadn’t seen it the same way she did. He took a step back and straightened his shoulders.

“Thank the gods you’re alright,” he said, sounding earnest. “My apologies, my king. I spoke out of turn.”

“Did you?” Eugenides asked icily. He was still as a marble statue, his face now carved in a terrible sneer. 

“Is he…” Teleus started, and trailed off. 

“We don’t know,” Irene answered. There were still sounds of Petrus working in the king’s room, but they had no way of knowing if it was a losing fight or not. She didn’t think Petrus would stop to tell them until he was certain of an outcome, or as certain as he could be. She dreaded his news. 

“Who brought the tray?” Teleus asked. 

“Hilarion,” Eugenides said faintly, turning now. He resumed pacing but more slowly, his voice rising. “Question him. Question the kitchen staff. Find out who touched that tray and when, who was alone with it. I want everyone who falls under suspicion and anyone who failed in the slightest to do their gods-damned jobs to be thrown in prison cells.”

The shout rang in the air.

Teleus nodded. 

“My king,” he said. “It will be done.”

The captain glanced at her. 

“My queen,” he said, before leaving. “Are you alright?”

She thought it was an inane question. She was perfectly fine, aside from the fact that someone had just tried to kill her husband. They might have gotten away with it, too, if his guard hadn’t gotten away with a stupid joke first.

Eugenides had thought it funny, in the beginning, when he’d told her. The audacity that might have angered him in someone else amused him in Costis. Irene suspected it made him feel more at home. She didn’t think he would have even told her at all if it hadn’t seemed so ridiculous to him.

Teleus was still waiting for her response.

“I’m fine,” she said curtly. Eugenides cast her a worried and searching look. She shook her head to him, as well.

Teleus bowed and turned to leave.

“Captain,” Irene said, stopping him. His armor glinted in the sunlight through the narrow windows when he turned. It was like sparks of a fire. “Anyone found to be aiding the man or woman guilty will also hang, unless they speak up. Then we will _consider_ a less severe sentence. Make sure they understand.”

Eugenides didn’t challenge this, and Teleus left with a murmured, “My queen.”

They waited. 

Attendants and guards milled about in the room, and the next over. Eugenides stopped abruptly when Hilarion returned from speaking to Teleus and dropped to his knees in front of Attolis. 

“I’m sorry, my king,” he said, his head bowed. He was the oldest of Eugenides’ attendants, and he was shaking. “It was I who brought the tray.”

Irene bit her tongue to keep from giving more orders. Eugenides could handle this. He was often more merciful than she thought people deserved, but it had yet to produce unwelcome results. She had discovered that she liked being able to be merciful; it was now a luxury she could afford.

The king didn’t answer for a long time. He looked ill. 

“Unless you want me to see you dead, you will get out of my sight.” Eugenides finally hissed, with a menacing calm. 

Hilarion didn’t even look toward her, like he might have once. He dropped his chin to his chest, weeping, and held his hands palms up toward Eugenides.

“My king, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I swear to you that–”

“Now!” Eugenides roared.

Hilarion scrambled to his feet, and bowed, and fled.

Irene sat and Eugenides paced and they waited. 


	8. Chapter 8

It was late in the afternoon when Petrus emerged from the room. He looked harried, his hair mussed. Irene should have been preparing for dinner already, but she had sent Phresine with word to delay the meal an hour. Teleus would need at least that much time to clear kitchen staff. She did not doubt he’d have cupbearers in place before they ate again. 

When Petrus stood in the doorway, his hunched shoulders taking even more height from his already slight stature, the room grew utterly silent and still. No one spoke, not even to ask him.

“He…he lives,” Petrus said, speaking to her directly and not the king. She held his gaze. “I do not know for how long, or how severe the damage will be. Time will tell. He may recover fully, but the ch-chance is slim.”

“How long?” Eugenides demanded. “Until we _do_ know?”

“I d-don’t know,” Petrus said, distressed. He gestured helplessly. “Days? Weeks? If he survives the next few days, I think it will be safe to say he will _live_ , at the least.”

Euginides put a hand to his forehead. Irene thought she alone noticed the twitch of his right arm, when he nearly raised it first– he only ever did that anymore when he was truly distracted and upset. She began to wonder at his state after she’d lost…after the miscarriage, when people assured her he was fine and she knew they were lying. He, too, hid his feelings from her, until she fought with him.

Another night they had both cried.

She pulled her attention back to the present. 

“Thank you, Petrus,” Eugenides said stiffly.

“Shall we move him?” Ion asked. “You need–”

“No,” Eugenides said. He twisted on his heel to glare at the attendant. “No. Not until morning.”

“My king,” Ion insisted. “Where will you sleep?”

“With me,” Irene cut in, with a withering look at the attendant. Now was not the time to hound Eugenides and she wondered at him even now having such tone-deaf help. She doubted Eugenides would be sleeping much anyway.

“Use the room as you need it,” Eugenides said to Petrus. “He isn’t to be left alone. Gather anything you need.”

Petrus nodded, and then Eugenides frowned and looked at Irene. He pressed his lips together,  
clearly torn and trying to decide something. 

“Is there…should we send for another…”

He trailed off, and her heart ached for him. He was so clever and always so many steps ahead of everyone, it was disconcerting to see him stumble. 

“My king,” she said firmly. “I am well. Petrus can find an aid for a time if I require him.”

Eugenides nodded. She longed to wrap her arms around him and hold him close. It had not been her impulse early on in their marriage, but she had grown to appreciate the wordless comfort of embrace.

“I will stay with him, while you gather supplies and an assistant,” Eugenides said, decisive again. 

“H-how much did he drink?” Petrus asked, before he left.

“A sip,” Eugenides said. “Nothing more.”

“And the effects?” Petrus asked, his hands clasped together. “Were they im-immediate?”

“No,” Eugenides said. “It was ten minutes before he said anything.” 

“How much did _you_ drink?” Irene cut in, with barely concealed alarm. 

“None,” Eugenides said. He ran his hand through his hair. He laughed, a dry sardonic sound. It was chilling how mirthless it was. “I was finishing a letter. I suppose I owe Ornon, for asking such thorough questions that it took me half the morning to answer.”

Irene felt weak from head to toe, her heart pounding. She was glad she was already sitting.

“You do,” Petrus agreed. “With a delay like that, you could have had the whole glass and been d-dead.”

“I’m quite aware,” Eugenides said.

“It is good though, that he had so little. That’s a factor in his favor.” Petrus said. 

“Go,” Eugenides said irritably, with a wave of his hand. “Hurry.”

When Petrus left, Eugenides went straight into his bedchamber and Irene rose to follow him. Philologos slipped out behind her, and they left the door open. Irene could see her guards edging closer to keep the distance between them short, but they didn’t come all the way into the room. 

Eugenides finally stopped pacing. Irene moved past him, where he’d stopped near the foot of the bed, staring at his guard. Costis was ashen, and his every breath was labored. He didn’t look like a man who would survive the night, but Irene had also seen men recover from worse. 

She didn’t sit– she didn’t intend to stay long, regardless of Eugenides’ plans– but she owed the guard this much at least. If he died, he died for her king, and husband. She could summon no wisps of guilt for the relief she felt at the guard lying there instead of a death shroud over Eugenides in the same bed. There was anger, though, and it broke like waves against rocks, over and over.

“My king,” she said. Forget Teleus’ investigation. They’d purge the entire kitchen, replace all of his weak-minded attendants, put Eddisians in their place if that’s what it took to–

She looked at him.

He wasn’t staring at his guard. She followed his gaze to the bedside table, covered with twisted rags and a few bowls and bottles of medicine. One of the cloths was bloodied, one glass bottle empty and tipped with its cork on the floor.

Eugenides was nearly as gray as his guard. His eyes were wide and unfocused. His mouth opened and closed, like a hunted animal pierced by an arrow, trying to make sense of the world’s sudden tilt as it faded. 

Her heart skipped a beat and she stepped closer.

“Eugenides?” she said, softly, so softly anyone in the next room couldn’t have heard. She placed a hand on his cheek and he flinched, stumbling backward.

He caught himself. Irene pulled her hand back as if burned, and he grabbed it, and pressed it against his cheek again.

“Don’t go,” he said, low and rough. She watched the bob of his throat, while he leaned into her palm with his eyes closed. So many times, he put his life in her hands, following the lead of his gods. Irene was daunted by the task of caring instead of wounding– the latter was once a tool, and had become so much a part of her that it terrified her to discover how difficult it was to put it down. She had thought the coldness, the lack of impulsivity, meant she retained enough control that it had remained separate. Then, Eugenides had come along, and she found that she had lied to herself. The instinct to wound was fused to her bones and felt like breaking to give up, even when she most wanted to be kind or gentle.

He had not yet stopped asking it of her, and she hoped he never would. 

“I’m here,” she said quietly. 

After a long moment of his slow breathing in and out, he opened his eyes. His fingers, pressed over her hand to hold it in place, curled around her fingers and he lowered their hands together. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“You needed a trusted guard,” she said. His hand in hers was warm and alive. 

“You don’t wish to rule alone again?” he teased, in a whisper. “Think of all the arguments it would save you.”

Irene hated how quickly he could draw fiery anger from her, like he’d dumped a glowing hot coal into a vat of oil. The words flew up and to the tip of her tongue, where they were doused. She couldn’t speak. Her heart ached with a now-familiar horror. She had been alone for so long. 

_Don’t jest,_ she wanted to say, to command.

His face, which he masked so often, could be curiously expressive. Eugenides was, she thought, the most alive person she had ever known. Every part of him was full of life and movement. When he was still, and he could be so still, it was with purpose. 

Now, he frowned, and his brow furrowed. Slowly, as if he were afraid of startling her, he pressed a kiss to her fingers tangled with his. 

He pulled his hand free of hers and brushed it over her braided and arranged hair, and she could feel the ghost of his touch on the side of her neck when he moved away. 

“We should replace all the kitchen staff,” she said, while he moved a chair to the bedside.

“We could,” he said. “But we aren’t going to.”

She had the sense he was leaving something unsaid, but she didn’t want to draw it out of him with a fight right now. Later, perhaps.

“Tell me why I’m not ordering Teleus to do just that,” she said, instead of asking what he was avoiding.

“I want the most guilty to be punished the most,” he said. He’d said it to her before. She nodded.

“Very well,” she said.

He leaned over Costis, studying him. He was hunting for something and she wasn’t sure what. Then, Eugenides kissed his guard’s forehead. He sat in the chair when it was clear she wasn’t going to claim it.

“I know there are meetings I can’t put off,” he said wearily. “And there’s court to hold tomorrow. I’ll stay until Petrus comes back and return to…to…”

 _Everything he hates_ , Irene finished in her head, when he trailed off. She knew he did hate it, nearly every second, and had thrown himself into the daily mechanisms of ruling to spare her the work while her body betrayed her will, weak in a way she couldn’t overrule. She feared the day he would resent her for it. 

Irene put a hand on his shoulder. She could feel the smooth plane of muscle under his shirt– he had shucked his formal jacket for letter writing. Rather than give him empty consolations, she said nothing. 

When Petrus returned, she left.


	9. Chapter 9

Eugenides did not go to dinner. He should have, and he knew it, and he still didn’t rise to dress and go. Philologos approached at one point, clearly reluctant, and before he could urge the king to return to his routine, his _duties_ , Eugenides spoke.

“Has the captain arranged for someone to taste the Queen’s food and drink?”

It was probably unnecessary. The people who hated Irene were kept far from her, and the people who hated the king and, by extension, Costis were not the same people. But it was hard to shake the fear, and he suspected Teleus would be cautious. 

“Yes,” Philologos said. 

“That is all,” Eugenides said. Philologos took the hint. 

He let Petrus sit near the bed and he withdrew to the shadows near his desk, the lamps unlit as night fell. He rolled a heavy inkwell in his palm, the weight of carved marble chilled and grounding. He set it aside and continued to wait.

Eugenides had known it was selfish to keep Costis nearby. He had known and he had done it anyway, telling himself it was for Irene’s sake. She felt better knowing he was well-guarded. 

Any less trusted guard would have been enough. He could defend himself if that guard failed, as long as it was someone to buy him a second of time. Any guard’s death would weigh on him, like every death did, but there were some weights easier to bear.

This, this is why he should have sent Costis straight back to Roa or perhaps into Brael with a new task. Then at least when he lacked company he enjoyed, or sat on walls and feared attack from behind more than a fall, he could know the death of a good man wasn’t on his shoulders. 

He had slept better, breathed easier, relaxed more since Costis had returned but those were things he could live without. He didn’t escape his entourage out of respect for Irene’s peace of mind, but having only Costis along when he wanted to be alone was less grating than his gaggle of attendants. 

Still, it wasn’t worth this price.

The attendants wouldn’t sleep as long as he was awake, but as the moon rose into the sky outside the window, Eugenides didn’t move. Let them stay awake and keep watch, he didn’t care. He didn’t think Irene truly expected him to join her tonight. 

He was exhausted and he was light headed from hunger. He never had eaten at midday, and the thought of eating anything now made him feel ill, so he didn’t call for anyone to bring him food. 

Time passed in a haze. Eugenides found himself thinking prayers that didn’t make it to his lips, for Costis, for Irene, for his unborn child. He couldn’t summon excitement for the future, only fear. Not like last time, when it felt like the world was a flower in bloom. 

He tried not to think about that time, but it invaded many of his waking moments and his dreams. It made him uncertain, unstable in a way he rarely was before and he loathed that. It dragged memories of other dark days to the surface.

He wondered if the gods knew how afraid he was, that the prayers that were silent on his tongue masked a self-hatred, because he already knew he could never forgive a child that took Irene from him. He dreaded being a father who couldn’t look at his own son, but he knew that it would be the way of things if she was gone. It disgusted him, knowing that weakness in himself.

 _Let them both live_ , he begged. _Let them all live._

They had refused him last time, or simply hadn’t listened at all, and rather than fury it had given way to terror. Had he lost them? Did they no longer hear him? Would they punish him for the rest of his life?

He was sick of death. 

A headache crept up his spine and through his head, pounding fiercest between his eyes. There was still a little, thin knot there beneath the skin from where he’d run into the board. It wasn’t visible on the surface, but he could feel the ridge of it when he pressed his fingertips there to try and alleviate the pressure. 

It did little to help.

Petrus noticed, and Eugenides willed him to say nothing.

“My king, would you like–”

“No,” Eugenides snapped. 

Petrus shrank back without another word, turning slightly so his face wasn’t toward Eugenides in the dim room. He had lit a lamp on this side, to better see the guard’s face. It cast the side of him the king could see into deep shadow by contrast.

With a sigh, Eugenides rubbed the back of his neck, kneading the tense muscles there. His arm ached. The stump trapped in the leather cuff was sore and stinging, and he wanted to wrench it off and throw it across the room.

There was a noise from the bed and he straightened.

Petrus stood, bending and murmuring to the guard.

Eugenides rose, and took a step closer. It was possible the movement was only seizing before death. He’d read of that happening with poison, the body twisting and jerking as it gave up life.

He wanted to flee the room, but he forced himself forward.

Costis was struggling to sit up, casting his gaze wildly around the room.

“The king,” he was saying, his voice hoarse. “The king, where is the king?”

“He’s fine,” Petrus said. “Lie still, Lieutenant.”

“Gods damn you,” Costis growled, propping himself on an elbow. He was shaking all over from the effort. “Where is _the king_?”

“I’m right here,” Eugenides said, from the foot of the bed. Costis looked at him, where he now stood in the cast light of the lamp. 

Costis fell silent, staring.

“Lie down, Costis,” Eugenides said.

The guard dropped back into the pillow.

“You aren’t dead,” he rasped.

“No,” Eugenides said, leaning on the bedpost. “You stopped me.”

Petrus offered Costis water and helped him to drink, and Costis closed his eyes after. His skin looked papery in the light, far from a healthy color. 

“I’ll get up,” he said, at the ceiling.

“Sleep,” Eugenides said, glancing at Petrus, who nodded. 

After a few minutes of listening to the faint, even wheeze of Costis’ breathing, Eugenides was certain he was asleep again. He turned and dropped heavily into the desk chair, weak with relief. 

“My king,” Petrus said quietly, from beside him. He hadn’t heard him approach and Eugenides nearly drew a knife in reflex. “May I help you?”

Eugenides looked up, confused, and Petrus gestured at the hook. 

His arm throbbed, so he raised it in acceptance. Petrus unfastened the straps and eased it off, and set it on the desk atop the scattered papers. Eugenides rubbed the end of the limb, tenderly prodding as he searched for new blisters or torn skin. His fingertips came away streaked with blood. Petrus clicked his tongue in a way that reminded Eugenides of Phresine, retrieved cloth and a bottle of medicine from the other side of the room.

He knelt beside the king and poured medicine onto a bit of cloth, and dabbed it on the skin. Eugenides hissed through his teeth.

“I can’t promise a full recovery,” Petrus said. His voice was soft. “It is a good sign that he’s awoken already, and that he isn’t deaf, or blind. He hasn’t lost language, either.”

“That…those were risks?” Eugenides asked. He ought to have known better, with all he’d read, but until Costis woke all he could think was life, or death. His blood ran cold now.

“Yes,” Petrus said. He sounded as nervous as he always did, but he wrapped the stump of Eugenides’ arm in thin cloth without faltering. “I th-think the risk has passed.”

Eugenides stood and left the room.

He stood at the threshold of the antechamber. Half of the attendants were dozing and slow to rouse, nudging at each other. Teleus was near the door and fully alert, his face impassive.

“He still lives,” Eugenides said, flat in his own ears.

He wandered past the attendants. Ion hurried after him into the hall, and when Eugenides glanced over his shoulder to check the far end at the top of the stairs, Philologos had joined Ion, and Teleus was with them.

They followed him through the palace to the Queen’s chambers, where he was admitted by the guards without question. He longed to escape to some high tower roof or lonely nook of library. It narrowed in his focus until he was white-hot with rage that _this_ was his life, a bird who had flown into a cage. He couldn’t shake off the attendants and guard without it getting back to Irene, and then she would be upset, and he didn’t _want_ to worry her.

There was only one place he could go to find something like solitude.

He pulled the bedchamber door shut and turned the lock, tore impatiently at his boot laces with blurring vision, kicked them off and crawled onto the bed.

He buried his face in a pillow to be met by black, endless dark– the stuff of his nightmares. He rolled over to squint at the dim shapes of furniture.

“Eugenides,” Irene whispered. She’d been awake since the lock clicked, he was certain.

“He’s alive,” he said, to the unspoken question.

And then he began to weep.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, when she wrapped an arm around him and tucked his face against her shoulder. His face was wet and it dampened the silk of her gown. 

“Shh,” she said, into his hair. She cupped the back of his head, moved to kiss his brow, and then let him bury his face again. “You’re safe.”

She said it with authority, and he believed her.


	10. Chapter 10

Sunlight poured into the room and fell across the bed. Costis tried to fling an arm over his face and his arm refused. He blinked at the light and took stock of things, trying to piece details together into a coherent picture.

The bed was not his own.

His throat felt like someone had poured hot sand into him. Foggy memories collected and fit into place. The drink, the poison, the king’s face.

The king’s bed.

His wooden limbs were sluggish to respond, but he managed to force himself halfway upright and roll off the bed. His knees hit the floor with a thud and there was someone beside him, scolding.

“What are you doing? Lie back down.”

Costis struggled to focus on the voice and the person. It was Ion, the king’s attendant, and he’d already gripped Costis’ elbow. He was trying to shove him upward and back into the bed.

“Petrus will be back soon. Wait for him.”

“Why aren’t you with the king,” Costis demanded, heaving for air between words. Talking was difficult.

Ion rolled his eyes and shrugged in exasperation.

“Because he ordered me to stay with you,” Ion said, pulling on Costis’ arm. “The captain is guarding him.”

Costis used Ion’s help to get to his feet, and then stood hunched and leaning heavily on the edge of the bed. Once he was sure his legs weren’t going to immediately give out, he took a step forward.

“What are you _doing_?” Ion snarled at him. “Do you _want_ him to put me in a prison cell? Because that’s what’s going to happen if he returns and you’re on the rug again.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Costis said through his gritted teeth. He took another step and let go of the bedpost. Balancing upright was a chore, but he managed as far as the doorway, where he leaned again to blink the dizziness from his head. Ion was behind him, berating him, and Costis ignored him.

“Costis!”

He had never in his life been so glad to see Aristogiton, and by the sound of it, the feeling was mutual.

“Aris, help me,” he said, and Aris was at his side tugging Costis’ arm around his neck. “I can’t stay in the king’s bed.”

“Where are we going?” Aris asked. “I don’t have a shift until after midday. Teleus said I could wait in here for word.”

“He has a room,” Ion said, resigned. “It’s there.”

Costis made his legs move again. He thought of things to say to Aris but couldn’t walk and speak at the same time, so he gave up and made good use of Aris’ support. It felt like weeks later that he dropped like a stone onto the cot with a groan.

He closed his eyes and caught his breath, winded after a short walk. His chest felt tight, not the ache of broken ribs but a heavy weight pressing down.

Aris pulled the door shut and sat on the small stool by the cot.

“What have I missed?” Costis asked, when he could talk again.

“The captain has men tasting everything the king or queen eat and drink,” Aris said. “Nobody saw the king for the whole of yesterday afternoon or evening, but he’s holding court today. The queen has taken every meal in her own room. The barons who were supposed to be in attendance last night are all terrified, but nobody has confessed.”

“They didn’t want the king dead,” Costis said.

“The captain has been– what?” Aris stopped abruptly, one eyebrow quirked in evident confusion.

“It was meant for me,” Costis said.

“Costis,” Aris said. He thumbed the hilt of his sword, which he was wearing even though he was off duty. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It wasn’t the first time they’ve tried,” Costis said.

“What?” Aris hissed.

Costis ran a hand down his face. His stomach hurt. “Roof tiles. A few weeks ago, when the Braeling was here. And that wasn’t the first time either.”

Aris looked doubtful, but he was uncharacteristically quiet. He crossed his arms and sat back on the stool, bracing his back against the wall.

“You didn’t used to lie to me,” Aris said. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Aris, I’m not lying,” Costis said. “It’s why he sent me away.”

“You’ve just been poisoned,” Aris said. “You nearly _died_. I’m not sure you’re thinking clearly.”

“You’re right,” Costis said. “I’m not. I’m muddled and feel ill. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Gods,” Aris exhaled, throwing his head back. “Are you trying to make me feel like an ass? Of course you can tell me. Roa, too?”

Costis nodded. “I think so.”

“Why tell me now?”

“I don’t know,” Costis said. “I’m not thinking clearly. I wasn’t lying about that either.”

“I wish I could still hate him,” Aris said into his palms. “But I can’t. He’s a good king. We were wrong about him.”

“I know,” Costis said. “Aris. Look at me.”

Aris moved his fingers first to peer through the gaps, and then dropped his hands altogether.

“If this is some deathbed wish, then–”

“Then _what_ ,” Costis interrupted harshly. His little energy was rapidly draining away. “If I don’t die now, I will someday.”

“Fine.” Aris shrugged and slouched down in the chair, scowling. “Give me your final wish. Don’t spare a second thought for those who were scared for you just hours ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Costis murmured. “I don’t want to die, if it’s any consolation.”

Aris shrugged and wouldn’t look at him.

“If I do die, protecting him,” Costis continued. “It’s only my duty. You know that. Don’t hold it against him. Promise me. He _needs_ good men he can trust, not just men Attolia can trust.”

“Her trust ought to be enough,” Aris grumbled.

“If he doesn’t have you, she won’t have him. Not for long. She needs him, too.”

“She was queen without him.”

“For how much longer?” Costis asked. “Tell me that, Aris. You heard the rumors about the Mede.”

“They’re king and queen,” Aris exclaimed. “How should I understand them, what they can’t and can’t do. They aren’t like us, Costis.”

“They’re my king and queen.” Costis shoved himself upright. “They’re also a man and his wife. They’re both, Aris. Promise me. If I die for him, today or ten years from now, you’ll serve him just the same. No matter what anyone says about how he used me.”

“You know what they say,” Aris said, sounding surprised. “I thought you would have gotten into more fights by now.”

“I know half, and I’m trying not to care. Advice I got once. I’m doing my best to follow it.”

“How did he do this?” Aris asked. He said it like he was teasing, but there was a glimmer of bemusement in it. “How did he separate _you_ from your beloved honor?”

“Serving him _is_ my honor,” Costis said, like flashing steel. It was resolute, without hesitation. “Whatever he asks of me.”

For a long time Aris stared at him as if Costis was a stranger.

Then, he reached to clap Costis on the back.

“Very well. You have my word.”

Costis was very, very tired. He wanted to sleep for days, and the exertion of fighting with Aris had done nothing to help the tight feeling in his chest.

“You’ve changed,” Aris said. He ran a hand through his hair and then propped his chin on his palm. He studied Costis. “Medea and Roa changed you.”

“Didn’t you tell me to change?” Costis asked bitterly.

“I did,” Aris agreed. “I just didn’t think you’d listen.”

“It wasn’t just for you,” Costis managed a smile. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Mostly for me, though.” Aris grinned. “You’re falling asleep.”

“Mm,” Costis mumbled.

When he woke, Aris was gone.

Petrus was sitting beside the bed and Costis guessed he hadn’t been sitting there very long.

“He yelled at me,” Petrus said, when he noticed that Costis was awake. “He yelled at me for moving you too soon.”

“You didn’t,” Costis said. He was still groggy with sleep and he felt worse than he had earlier. His throat burned when he spoke.

“I know that,” Petrus said. “Telling him that when he’s already upset isn’t an easy task.”

“Are you asking for an apology?” Costis couldn’t disguise his shock. It was enough words to bring tears to his eyes, with the way his throat felt.

“No,” Petrus said. “I’m telling you not to go anywhere else, not without my permission, until you’re out of my care. Drink this.”

Costis didn’t think he could, but he took the small cup anyway and downed the bitter medicine. For a terrifying moment he thought his throat was closing, and then the feeling faded. Some of the pain faded, too.

“How is the king?” Costis asked, though it hurt. Months of letters from Roa without a direct question to Aris and now he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

Petrus pressed a cork back into the neck of a little glass bottle. “Alive,” he said.

There was a knock on the narrow door.

“Come in,” Petrus called.

The door opened and Philologos was standing there with a tray. Petrus accepted it. Costis didn’t need to sit up to see that it was only bread and broth.

“It’s been tasted,” Philologos said. “King’s orders.”

“Thank you,” Petrus said.

Philologos left and Petrus set the tray on his knees, and looked like he was prepared for Costis to argue. Costis said nothing.

Petrus shrugged a shoulder. He helped Costis to sit and dip pieces of bread in the broth until it was gone. Costis finished it all and was frustrated to find that merely eating had worn him out again.

“Did you drug it?” he asked Petrus.

“No,” Petrus said. “You were that close to death. It will take time.”

Costis fell back asleep.

For countless hours, he slept and woke to eat and drink or swallow medicine. He couldn’t tell how long it had been, he didn’t have the energy to find out or care. Whenever he woke, someone was there, or very nearby. If he sat up alone, an attendant would materialize to open the door and join him.

It was infuriating.

Costis was too ill to chase them off. That was infuriating, too. It was a long time before he woke and could breathe without it being a chore. The constant ache ebbed away from his head and muscles and left him weak. Raising a cup for himself made his whole arm shake.

When he woke and could stay awake, Costis pushed himself to sit, and then to stand. The first time Ion came to the doorway when Costis was making himself walk the length of the narrow space, Costis pretended he wasn’t there.

The attendants stopped sitting in the room after that. Costis was glad, but it coincided with when he was awake longer and tired quickly of walking. He spent a long day or two doing little other than listening to the noises of life outside– attendants talking, the footsteps of men going back and forth, the clinking of chainmail when guards moved, and occasionally the king’s voice when he spoke while walking through.

He had plenty of time to think, and all he got out of it was the same determination as before. He owed another debt, but he could see to that when he could walk further than twenty paces.

He wanted to get back to his job.

Petrus stopped visiting, after declaring him out of danger and just in need of time. Costis found himself with much time, and not much to do with it.

The next morning he was sitting on the edge of the cot when the door flew open without warning.

Attolis was standing there.


	11. Chapter 11

Attolis was slight, but his frame nearly filled the narrow doorway.

Costis slid to his knees beside the bed, partly out of respect and partly because he was startled and thrown off balance looking up so quickly from the edge of the cot.

“Did they not give you anything to do?” the king asked. “Philologos! Come here!”

Costis kept his head bowed. His cheeks burned red because he wasn’t sure he could stand again easily.

“My king?” Philologos said above him. 

“Go find things for poor Costis to do. Scrolls, books, paper. I don’t care what.”

Philologos left and it wasn’t until the sound of his retreating footsteps faded completely that Attolis crouched in front of Costis.

“Don’t bow to me right now,” he said, his voice strange. 

“My king,” Costis said. It was then he realized it was because the king hadn’t bothered to cover his native accent. It was too late, though. 

“I know, I know,” Attolis said. “I’m not being sufficiently king-like.”

He reached with his left hand and hauled Costis upright, and Costis let him do it.

“Don’t tell me they’ve forgotten to feed you, too,” Attolis said, with genuine warning. 

“No,” Costis said. He was recovered enough that he didn’t sway on his feet. “I’ve been fed. I’ve barely been left alone.”

“It isn’t very pleasant, is it?” the king asked cheerfully. 

Costis shook his head. 

Attolis glanced around the small room, studying the narrow window, the cot, the stool, the small trunk of Costis’ belongings. His armor had been cleaned by someone and hung on a hook on the wall. 

“This room isn’t very big, is it,” the king said, tapping the wall with his knuckles. “Is it too small, do you think?”

“It’s enough,” Costis said. “Once I’m back on duty, I won’t spend much time here.”

“Hmm,” Attolis said. “That’s true. Philologos will bring you things. Tell him anything else you want. You’re welcome to come and go as you need, until Teleus judges you fit for duty.”

“Thank you, my king,” Costis said. If his legs would make it that far, he was desperate to soak in the hot baths. His skin was crawling with the grime of too many days in bed.

Attolis left, and turned toward his room. The door shut. 

Costis decided not to wait for Philologos to return. He was in a thin robe used for the sick, and he pulled it over his head and changed into his leather tunic and kilt. He left the chain mail. 

It took him a long time to get to the baths. Nobody stopped him, but plenty of people slowed to stare. He kept moving, and was leaning on a wall and regretting everything by the time he was actually in the bathhouse. 

A bathhouse attendant hurried to meet him, and accompanied him to the baths, with a woven towel in his arms. 

The hot water was a gift from the gods. He thought he might never leave. He reluctantly dragged himself out when he caught himself drifting to sleep. He thought the attendant might notice and not let him slip under for long, but he couldn’t be sure. 

Men were heading toward the mess hall when he emerged from the bathhouse. Costis considered joining them but was already growing dizzy. He was beginning to think he’d overdone it, going so far from the tiny room for the first time in what he thought was over a week. 

He nearly gave up at the bottom of the stairs. He could go wait in Teleus’ office and ask for a bed in the barracks– Teleus would probably give it to him, with not much more than some irritated growling.

Costis lifted one foot and planted it on the first step, and then he kept climbing. 

He was drenched with sweat and had undone all the good of the hot bath by the time he made it even halfway. A few servants gave him wary glances but nobody stopped him. He realized that anyone important was probably at the court dinner.

It was late enough when he finally reached the final stretch of hallway that he was worried about running into a flock of attendants and guards and the king. A god must have held him in favor because he made it all the way back to his little cot without seeing more than the usual guard on watch at the first door. He merely nodded and opened the door for Costis, with an even, “Lieutenant.”

He collapsed on the cot and slept. 

Before he opened his eyes, he knew it was the middle of the night. He also knew someone was in the room with him. He shifted with a groan, reaching for a knife beneath his cot.

“Some people might see that as a threat,” Attolis remarked calmly.

Costis dropped the knife.

“I can’t get up,” he said.

“Can’t or won’t?” Attolis asked. There was the sound of liquid being poured. “What if I told you I’ve been stabbed?”

Costis was up with the knife in his hand before he blinked, the cot clattering as it fell back to the floor from where he’d nearly upset it.

The king was sitting on the floor, legs crossed. He looked perfectly comfortable. There was a wine amphora and two cups on the stool.

“I haven’t been stabbed,” Attolis said.

All the fight went out of Costis in a rush, and he sank onto the cot. The knife disappeared from his grip, and he buried his face in his hands.

“Why?” he choked out. 

“This is a very pretty knife,” Attolis said. He was spinning it in his fingers when Costis looked up over his hands. “Why haven’t I been stabbed? I’m really the wrong person to ask. I get the impression Teleus works rather hard to keep it from happening again.”

“Why would you _lie_ about being stabbed?”

“I didn’t lie,” the king said. He balanced the blade across the backs of his knuckles. “I simply asked if your answer would change _if_ I lied.”

Costis exhaled long and slow through his nose.

“It was a gift,” he said. If it had been anyone else, he would have held his hand out and expected it to be promptly returned. He didn’t so much as ask the king.

“From Kamet?” the king asked.

“Yes,” Costis said, unsurprised that the king knew or had figured it out so quickly. Just knowing who it was from wasn’t the same as knowing the look on Kamet’s face when Costis had pulled it from the wooden box, the silence that stretched on after, the earnest thanks that had made Kamet duck his head and change the subject. There was information that could be collected and then there was life not so cleanly distilled.

“A drink?” Attolis offered. He returned the knife, hilt first, and gestured to the cups. “Though, I can understand if you don’t want to take a cup from me.”

Something dark and wary flashed across the king’s face. Costis tucked the knife back under the cot’s mattress, and held out his hand for a cup. He looked the king in the face while he did so.

He slid back on the cot to prop himself against the wall. He suspected he was being too informal, but he had been telling the truth– he could barely move. Training and instinct told him he ought to be on his feet, but if he tried to stand again he’d fall on the king. This was the less horrific of the two options.

Attolis took a long drink from his cup. 

Costis tasted the wine. It was very good, and not watered down. He drank more, with the idle thought that a saner man would probably be nervous to drink something that could easily mask flavors. 

Nothing happened.

Attolis refilled his own cup. Costis thought of that early meeting in his barracks room, when he’d downed several cups to the king’s one. He couldn’t even remember if the king had actually poured himself anything at all. 

Costis drank slowly, keenly aware he’d had nothing for dinner. 

The warmth spread through him, almost as good as the bathhouse. He let the hand cradling the cup rest on his lap to hide the trembling. 

“Do you miss Roa?” Attolis asked.

Costis, caught off guard by the question, considered.

“No,” he said. “Kamet. But not Roa.”

The king drained his second cup and peered into the bottom of it. 

“If you’re going to drink, I prefer this to chasing you off walls,” Costis risked saying. “This way, I get to drink, too.”

“The last time I got you drunk, you told me how much you hated me, and what a horrible king I am,” Attolis said. He set the cup down with a _clunk_ on the stool and filled it again. 

“I was having a bad day,” Costis said, without inflection. 

The king laughed. He pulled his hand away from the cup and laughed, and laughed. He threw the same hand over his eyes and made helpless choking noises until Costis was almost alarmed. When he sucked in a deep breath and calmed, he had to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes. He snatched the cup and drank.

“You,” Attolis said, pointing at him with the cup, “have a gift for understatement. I was having a bad day, too, if you recall, though not as bad as you. One of my own guard hit me.”

“What a bastard,” Costis said, into his cup. It was going to his head, and fast. “I hope you punished him.”

“I think I did,” Attolis said, suddenly serious.

Costis hadn’t had that much wine. Maybe Attolis hoped it was working faster in his weakened condition, maybe the king had already had enough of his own to misjudge. Maybe he didn’t think about the wine at all.

“No,” Costis said, equally serious. “It was mercy. A king’s right.”

Attolis’ face, still flushed from wine and laughter, smoothed into a somber, inquisitive expression. 

_My gods_ , Costis thought, _he’s so young._

“And now?” the king asked.

“Honor,” Costis said. “A king’s favor.”

“Even if that favor costs your life?” Attolis asked. 

He was definitely drunk. Costis should have found a reason to wrestle the amphora away from him two cups ago, but he didn’t think he could even stand to hold it. 

Costis didn’t answer, weighing what he might say, and how likely Attolis was to believe him in his inebriated state. He wanted to say, _yes, of course, always_. Would the king know it wasn’t a joke? Costis had put his life in the hands of the king and his god, and he had done so willingly. He was terrified the king would send him away again.

“What I’m asking, Costis,” the king said. He balanced the cup on the arc of the hook, and set it spinning. 

Costis watched, mesmerized. 

“I’m asking if it costs your life, will that be merely in repayment of what you see as a debt? Would it be so freely given if you were freed from that debt? I did provoke you into hitting me, after all.”

Attolis flicked the hook and the empty cup soared end over end up into the air. He caught it with his hand and placed it beside the amphora. 

“My king,” Costis said. “I swore an oath. I don’t regret that oath and I would not ask to be freed from it.”

The small room was quiet except for the sound of breathing, and Attolis running his thumb over the stitching of his sleeve. 

The king offered the amphora and Costis shook his head.

“I’ve made a mistake,” Attolis said petulantly. “I didn’t need to be this drunk.”

“Are you?” Costis asked. He’d begun to doubt when Attolis caught the cup. 

“Enough,” Attolis said. “Tell me about fish while I wait for the room to stop spinning.”

“What kind of fish?” Costis asked, relieved for a topic where he didn’t feel like he was sprinting races. 

“Roan ones. Whatever you caught. Did you like fishing?”

“I hated it, my king,” Costis said, honestly. But he went on, to tell him about the fishing boats and the stinking holds, the color of the fish like cold steel blades, the captain of the ship, and the thick braided nets and how to mend them. 

He spoke until he was hoarse, until his eyes were shutting of their own accord, and he didn’t know Attolis had stood until a hand patted his shoulder.

“Good night, Costis,” the king said, and Costis slept and dreamed of Attolis drowning, and his own hand pulling him to the surface.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading and for comments! i appreciate it so much <3
> 
> chapter count has changed to reflect me deciding to chop a previous very long chapter into two pieces.

It was another week before Costis was anywhere near ready to return to duty. Teleus approved him for half shifts, just so he could oversee tasks he himself had been putting aside. Costis found out this way that Teleus had been taking long shifts guarding the king himself, at the Queen’s command. The king didn’t contradict it, and Teleus was wearing down from doing what was essentially the work of two men. 

The king visited Costis most nights that week. He would show up in the middle of the night with an amphora of wine, or play with a knife, and once he brought tea. He never drank as much wine as he had that first time, but he would ask Costis questions. 

Costis didn’t hate the visits– he found himself looking forward to them, despite the lingering unease that the entire thing was improper somehow. He never could find a good way to tell the king he didn’t have to visit, without offending him. He finally decided Attolis wouldn’t be showing up during the dog watch unless he wanted to, or felt he owed it to Costis. It wasn’t easy to talk the king out of anything he’d set his mind on, and Costis knew all too well the weight of an unpaid debt. 

When he lasted a routine sword exercise with Teleus in the yard, Teleus walked with him as far as the stairs leading to the palace to ask, “If I put you back on duty, am I putting him in danger?”

Costis had answered, “No, Captain,” and that was that. He hadn’t seen Petrus for days. Teleus gave him a week of mornings guarding the king, before extending it to full shifts. 

The first day, Costis felt fine the entire morning and then slept like the dead for hours the second he was back in his little room. 

The second day, they went back and forth across the palace so many times that the king’s quiet, “Sit down, Costis,” before the midday meal was a relief and one he was ashamed to need. 

By the end of the span of seven days he felt nearly himself again. He hoped it wouldn’t be long before he recovered enough to be a useful sparring partner for the king. The slowness of recovery grated.

It was the end of that week, when the guard was about to change, that Attolis looked up from a letter he was reading and said, “Stay a bit longer, Costis.”

Costis stayed where he was.

Attolis set the letter aside and began to trim his pens. He held a pen in place off the side of the desk with the hook, and trimmed with a small knife. 

“You still have the earring?” the king asked.

Costis’ heart sank. “No.”

The king glanced at him. “You’ve not given it away? Lost it? Sold it?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Costis said. He knew exactly where it was, on an altar to the king’s god, seal down so nobody would know what was sitting there. Nobody would dare take from an altar anyway. 

“Interesting,” the king said. 

Costis wondered if he should explain without invitation to do so.

“You’re going to Brael,” the king said, while pen shavings dropped onto the floor.

All the air and thought went out of Costis. He’d been afraid of this, but he’d hoped the king’s visits meant he was going to be staying– he thought it had been long enough without mention of being sent away that the danger had passed.

“This has nothing to do with the earring. There’s a trade center there. I want you to stay there for a while.”

“Why?” Costis asked, and Attolis looked up with eyes that flashed like the glint of sharpened knife in his hand. Costis swallowed hard and bowed his head. “I beg your pardon, my king.”

The king went back to pen-trimming. “There’s information that might be useful to me. I need you to listen for it.”

 _Can’t someone else go? Anyone else?_ Costis wanted to ask. He kept his lips pressed together. 

“If you’d like to go see your family, or Kamet, before you travel, arrangements can be made,” the king continued. 

“Thank you,” Costis said hollowly. He felt like a dried husk of a person, which is perhaps why he forgot himself and spoke more than just his gratitude. “My apologies, my king, but Your Majesty’s life was recently in danger. Should I not stay until the traitor is caught?”

“The poison was meant for you,” the king said, though he’d grown very still.

“It was in your cup,” Costis reminded him. “I was only in the way.”

The king gathered the pens on one side of the table, moving and working so quietly that the silence in the room felt loud. When he finally did speak, it was low and dangerous.

“That isn’t what you told your friend.”

Costis felt the earth disappear from beneath him. 

Ion. Ion had heard him through the door, talking to Aris. He’d rarely felt so stupid as he did in that moment. He was angry at the little snake of an attendant, and he could still see the blue pallor of the king’s dead face in his dream from the night before. 

The king asked, “Why have you changed your mind, if you aren’t lying?”

The sting of his stupidity, the haunting dreams, the anger at Ion, were all possible reasons for his flimsy defense of himself. He knew it was shoddy, and he said it anyway, grasping for some way to be allowed to stay. 

“You wanted me to get better at lying,” Costis said sharply. 

An inkwell flew across the room and smashed on the wall by Costis’ head. He didn’t flinch at the inkwell, but he did flinch at the king’s roar.

“I didn’t think you would lie _to me_!” 

Attolis was on his feet, and his fury made him look taller and more imposing. Costis wanted the earth to swallow him whole. He felt himself flush from head to toe and he nearly dropped to his knees right there, to apologize. 

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I…”

He wanted to guard the king, to keep him safe.

But he had just tried to lie to the king himself to do it.

“I’ll do whatever you command in Brael, Your Majesty,” Costis heard himself saying. “I can go straight there.”

“The guard has changed,” the king said. “Clean that up.”

“If I’m here,” Costis said at the last second, frantic and with little to lose, “then they focus their efforts on me. I’m a distraction.”

“Costis,” the king said, from by the door. That was all he said.

He left Costis alone in the king’s chamber, shaking with both rage and shame. He was sick of being sent away when he could do the thing he was best at here, and guard the king’s life. Even a tower watch would be preferable, if he deserved a demotion. 

It was his own fault that he’d both lied and been caught in it. He could shoulder the weight of a rebuke, as much as it wounded him, but he sensed he’d damaged something he couldn’t begin to repair. 

He didn’t understand. Was the king angry with him? Did the king not truly trust him? Did he think Costis resented the danger, the attempts on his life? 

He cleaned up the ink with a cloth the best he could. Ion came in with some powder to soak the ink out of the floor. Costis didn’t let himself speak to the attendant, who gathered broken pieces and left again.

Costis remembered he hadn’t yet visited the altar after surviving the poison. He’d been planning on selling the knife from Kamet to leave something approaching a suitable offering, when he had a chance to make it to a shop that would pay him fairly. 

If he was sent away, he couldn’t protect Attolis.

If Attolis sent him, it was his duty to go.

Attolis was already angry with him, and Costis was angry in return. If his life was in danger, that was his _job_ , to be between danger and the king. 

Without thinking for long about it, he strode to the king’s desk and picked up one of the heavier ink pots. It was carved marble, and he tucked it into his tunic where it was frigid against his belly. It matched the chill inside him at what he was doing.

He left just as Ion was returning.

He didn’t stop at his room, or the guard’s training yard. He went straight to the temple.

At the altar he fell on his knees. He placed the stolen inkwell among the other offerings. The absence of the weight on his skin was colder than the marble had been.

“Please,” he begged, his head bent. “Keep him safe. Look, I’ve stolen this. They say the gods know us. Then, you know me and that I steal very little. I thought you wanted me to guard him but what can I do? He’s the king. I’m no one. Please.”

He didn’t know what to say beyond that. He wanted to keep saying that last word, over and over, but instead he was silent. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, but he waited until his legs ached. 

Wretched, he staggered to his feet and returned to the palace.

He wasn’t on duty until the next morning, if even then. He had no idea when the king planned to send him to Brael, and if his utter mishandling of receiving the order had changed those plans. He ate dinner in the mess hall with Aris, who fortunately assumed his mood was merely not feeling well and mostly left him alone.

He went back into the palace itself after dark. He wasn’t even to the king’s chambers yet when Phresine peeled herself out of shadows and stopped him.

“Lieutenant, the queen wishes to speak with you,” she said. “Must I show you my proof?”

Costis shook his head and followed her.

“You’re a difficult man to find, Lieutenant,” Phresine said. They passed by an atrium and voices drifted up from below– barons talking after dinner. They were loud and laughing. 

“I’m sorry,” Costis said, feeling the sting of the scolding. All his anger from earlier had drained away and left him empty. There was a vague sense that the stolen ink pot could get him in much trouble, entirely stripped of rank and job, or dead. He was now certain that Attolis had already discovered it missing and left the matter to his queen, rather than see Costis again. Yet, he couldn’t summon a response.

He was driftwood, pulled and thrown by the surf of the sea.

Phresine led them both to the queen’s chambers and within, to the interior room where the queen sat brushing her hair. Costis stood an appropriate distance away, at attention, and waited.

The queen pulled the stiff bristles through her hair one last time before handing the brush to Phresine, who quickly gathered the queen’s hair into a loose knot.

Then, then she turned to him, without rising from her slender seat. She sat in the chair like it was a throne, and it became a throne because she sat in it. Despite his numbness, Costis couldn’t help his awe at her clear power. Even in a simple gown, her body rounded with child, she was a queen. His queen. 

“The king is sending you away,” she said. She looked at him for confirmation.

“Yes,” Costis said, his mouth so dry the word was rasped. 

“You do not want to go,” the queen said. 

Costis, understanding now that this wasn’t at all about an ink pot, shook his head. “No, Your Majesty.”

“Why not?” Attolia asked. Her gaze, hard and chill, pinned him to where he stood. He didn’t know why she was asking, or what answer she expected or sought, so he was honest.

“I want to guard him,” Costis said.

“The king has many guards,” Attolia rebutted. “The entirety of the Guard is at his disposal. Why can they not do the work? Do you have reason to mistrust their loyalty?”

“No,” Costis said, quickly. He thought of Laecdamon. Surely, there were others like him. He changed his answer. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. I don’t know them all well enough to say.”

“Trust should not be given lightly,” the queen agreed. “So. Do you know why you ought to guard my Lord Attolis?”

“No, my queen,” Costis said. His skin crawled. He was a fool, thinking himself so important as to be the one to watch the king’s back. He wasn’t the only man who served him and there must be others who served the king’s god. 

“It is because he trusts you,” Attolia said. 

Costis’ training was the only reason he didn’t flinch. 

“He needs you, and he is afraid of that,” Attolia said. “He is afraid because others have recognized your importance to him and would try to kill you both. He wants to give you safety of a kind. He does not want to be responsible for your death here.”

“It is my duty,” Costis said, when she paused and he realized she was waiting for him to speak.

She nodded, and held a hand out to Phresine. Phresine gave her a cup of water, already poured.

“I need a king who can sleep, who is not at his wit’s end from loneliness and being at all times his own guard. I cannot make him trust his men. That will take time. I am willing to give the life of a guard to buy that time, if that is what it takes. He will, eventually, survive losing you, if you die. I am not sure Attolia can afford to risk losing him to the slow ruin of his mind. Do you understand what I am asking you to do?”

“My duty,” Costis said, quickly. He was staggered by her belief in the depth of his usefulness to the king, but that didn’t keep him from responding to the immediate question. 

“I am in a delicate position,” Attolia went on. “I cannot order him to accept some of the more trusted guards while they guard my own person and the future of Attolia. He has ordered you to Brael. I also cannot contradict that order without a fight, and we cannot afford a fight. My Lord Attolis, when he is decided, will listen to no one. There is one order I can give and that is to tell you, Costis, to plead your case with him directly. You _must_ convince him he gains nothing from sending you away, and security by keeping you here.”

Once upon a time, Costis had been afraid of being caught between these two powerful, stubborn, ruthless people and now he found he had underestimated just how crushing it would feel. 

“Your Majesty,” Costis began, helpless. 

The king was obstinate and already unhappy with Costis, with reason. He had plans that Costis was entirely certain were legitimate ones for Brael, because even if he wanted Costis out of the palace the king was too brilliant to not find two purposes for a single action.

“I know,” the queen said, and rather than irritated at the resistance she sounded gentle. For a moment, Costis could see her as a mother, to the child she carried as she had been to Attolia– fiercely protective, not without a heart. Whatever others said, she was not heartless. “I know I am giving you an impossible task. If you fail, and he is not too displeased with your attempt, he may still send you to Brael. I will not intervene to punish you for failure, unless I find you did not try at all. Choose your time wisely. You know, better than many in the palace, how to read his mood.”

Costis thought of approaching the king and he hadn’t the slightest idea how to begin a conversation that breached such protocol by pleading and arguing. He never would have dared if it hadn’t been for an order, but he found having the order emboldened him. 

“My queen,” Costis said, and she nodded for him to continue. “Do you wish that he wouldn’t know you commanded me?”

For a moment, her expression was so inscrutable he was afraid he’d asked the wrong thing and undone everything. She could just as easily order him dismissed, or worse.

Then, she glanced at Phresine as if searching for something she didn’t know. Her hands were pale around the cup of water. 

“I would appreciate that,” she said, “but I will not make that part of my command.”

So, if he obscured the truth, it was on his own head. If he told the king everything, he was not defying her orders. 

In all his years of service, Attolia had never seemed so transparent to him. Unmasked, he didn’t find her weak, or less worthy of his respect. He saw her as a wife, afraid for her husband, and willing to risk his ire if it kept him safe. 

In a bright and blazing second, Costis understood why she loved the king. Attolis had proven himself a king worth following, and Costis had thought that enough. He left the queen’s loyalty to mysteries beyond a simple guard. Now, like being given a riddle and an answer at the same time, he saw more: that she loved a king who could be furious and ruthless, yet would never act with intent to hurt her. To Costis, the king’s anger was a living, breathing thing as dangerous as a sand viper in Medea. 

To the queen, it was safety.

And she was asking Costis to risk it because there was no other way to sway Attolis without a fight every servant and slave would talk about until it had made it to the home of every baron, and the whole country would know that there was division in the palace.

“You understand what I am asking,” Attolia said. If she was afraid, it did not show in her voice, and he doubted it ever would. She must have seen something in his face, his face that gave so much away.

“Yes,” he said. “It is an honor to serve my queen.”

She gave him the briefest smile and Costis knew he would mark the passing years by that slight curve.

If he lived long enough to mark them.

He thought of the inkpot, the prayer he had believed unanswered, the answer now before him. He would live long enough, he thought. 

“You may go,” Attolia said.

Costis bowed and left, and once outside her chambers, whatever confidence he’d gathered left him and left him cold with dread.

The gods had heard him.

He wasn’t so sure the king would do the same.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes at the end!

The tray of breakfast came with a guard escorting the attendant, the food and drink already tasted before it was set on the table in Eugenides’ bedchamber. There was no reason for Costis to step forward and sip the water, so he remained where he was by the door.

Eugenides wasn’t yet used to the absence of the gesture, and he caught himself from glancing up in surprise. It had overridden the low thrum of steady anger he’d felt since the midday before. He had been lied to before, but somehow this unsuccessful attempt cut deeper than many more cunning deceptions. He hadn’t wanted to even look at Costis the entire morning, and he hadn’t.

In return, Costis was utterly silent. Without Eugenides prompting him to speak, he observed protocol and was like the armoire or desk. Mere furniture.

Eugenides didn’t linger long over the meal. He didn’t have time to linger and think about how to resolve things with Costis, either. He was tempted to dismiss him on the spot and save them both the trouble, but he held his tongue.

His favorite inkpot was also missing and he didn’t know where it had run off to– an attendant he now needed to worry about? A moment of furious distraction? Irene playing some kind of joke, or sending some indirect summons?

He wanted time to think somewhere, alone, and sort through the past week or two. He’d worked hard to make sure wherever he was sending Costis was the best place for Attolia and Costis alike, and plans to send him to Roa were changed when he discovered how much Costis hated it there. He’d thought the guard had liked it.

Brael was a place he needed another legitimate information source and he wasn’t concerned about Costis continuing to lie as much as confused as to why he would, when Eugenides was offering him a way out of the dangerous palace.

The day was full of things to attend to, however. Odd that, now that he was a king and could do anything he wanted, he could do so little of what he wanted to do. The price to shirk his duties as a monarch would be watching Irene shoulder everything he dropped.

So, he went to hold court, and to meetings with advisors, and spent the entire day in a foul mood. He tried to keep it from spilling over into decisions, but the effort of doing that meant he was caustic in speech and men carefully skirted around him the entire day.

Costis was all but mute.

It went on like that for several miserable days, as his anger spent itself. He _had_ teased Costis, more than once, about lying. He had been earnest just as often. He thought it was a skill worth cultivating, and knowing he had instigated it made him angry with himself. One thing led to the next and soon he was angry at everything and everyone, save Irene.

The most he spoke to Costis in that stretch of days was to tell him he’d leave for Brael at the end of the month. Costis had said, “Yes, my king,” and that was that.

Eugenides wanted to be alone, or he wanted to fight someone.

He did neither.

He didn’t want Irene to know how poorly he was doing, so he told her he had frequent headaches– which was not a lie, even if she thought it was– and avoided her for a time.

Once, when Eddis had warned him, to be certain he knew what he was taking on, she had said, “You will not have the luxury of being yourself, Gen.”

“I am always myself,” he’d said. “Nothing will change that.”

Now, there were times he feared he’d put himself into so many little boxes that all that was left of him was Attolis the King, and someday it would be all that remained. Just a shell of skin stretched over a frame of duty and protocol instead of bone.

He’d given his hand to Attolia, and now it wanted the rest of him.

That struck him as so darkly funny he almost laughed aloud during a meeting. His mind was wandering, probably from not sleeping well, and he focused on what the minister of trade was saying about wool. He needed to look attentive, even if everything the man said was information Eugenides had gotten hours ago.

The hidden laughter dispelled some of his fury and he was approaching a better mood when Costis went off duty that evening. The guard lingered a moment, as if he was working up to saying something, and the hesitation reminded Eugenides of the great gap now between him and most people.

He’d once thought he wanted that separation.

It irritated him to be reminded of it now, and he asked coldly, “What is it, Costis?”

“Nothing for the moment, Your Majesty,” Costis said.

So, it had been something. Eugenides frowned but let him go with a wave of his hand.

It was late when there was a knock on his door. He hadn’t prepared for bed yet, and thought it was perhaps an attendant coming to try to nudge him in that direction. After a weary glance at the night sky outside the window, he swept the pile of notes on his desk to one side. The ones on the top he’d leave out for the prying eyes of attendants– he suspected they would, and he wanted to satisfy their impulses with information he controlled.

Other notes from informants and on various subjects went beneath a small pile of scrolls.

Then, he rose and unlocked the door.

It was Philologos, Ion, the night guard Exis, and another guard. The second guard looked nervous.

“This is more force than is necessary to get me into bed, Philologos,” Eugenides quipped. They weren’t sure if they should laugh or not, and it gave him precious seconds to study the newcomer while he shuffled awkwardly on his feet.

Exis didn’t shuffle.

“Your Majesty, Lepkus claims he has information about the recent attempt on your life.”

“Take it to Teleus,” Eugenides said automatically. He was desperately curious, but the captain was in charge of the investigation and with reason. Otherwise, all his time would be devoted to men who claimed to know or have seen some detail merely to earn them a few minutes with the king.

“I’m afraid he wouldn’t believe me, Your Majesty,” Lepkus said, quickly. He looked sidelong at Exis, who was scowling at him– perhaps he’d been insistent and Exis had warned him about this specific outcome. “Or, he may try to suppress the information out of misguided loyalty.”

Now, Eugenides was too interested to wait for Teleus. None of his various informants around the palace had hinted that the poisoning was anyone in his inner circle, or someone Teleus might have strong ties to.

The antechamber was one with furniture for receiving guests or friends not admitted to the bedchamber, and Eugenides lifted his chin at the room behind the small party.

“Philologos. Make sure no one is at the outer door.”

Eugenides sat on one of the carved chairs but did not invite the others to do the same. Lepkus stood in front of him, flanked by Exis, and his agitation visibly increased. Eugenides leaned back, crossed his ankles, and rested his hook along the arm of the chair.

“Before you begin,” he said, “let me first tell you, if you accuse my Lady Attolia I will see you hanged.”

Lepkus nodded.

“It’s Lieutenant Ormentiedes, Your Majesty.”

The room grew as silent as a tomb, except for the sound of Exis sucking in a breath.

“What,” Eugenides hissed, sitting upright. Even if Costis had tried, poorly, to lie to him, there was no– “Impossible.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Lepkus said, hunting for support in Exis’ face before turning his full attention back to Eugenides. “I was told to help move his belongings a few months ago, and I dropped a packet of letters and notes. This was in them.”

Lepkus withdrew a worn piece of paper from the pouch at his side, the creases deep from folding and refolding.

“I kept it, Your Majesty,” Lepkus said. “I believed it worth preventing from destruction. It’s blackmail, sir. It threatens his family if he doesn’t cooperate.”

Eugenides flicked a finger at Ion, who took the paper.

“That is what it says, my king,” he said, quietly.

Eugenides snatched it from him and scanned the lines, written in a neat and elegant hand. Someone educated, then, perhaps a baron or a baron’s son. It was not signed.

“Why did you not bring this to me sooner?” Eugenides demanded.

The guard bent his head. “My error was good faith, Your Majesty. I’ve known Ormentiedes for some years and thought he would not act, even pressured. I saved it out of fear, but truly believed he’d refused the man threatening him, until this previous week.”

The whole world was a mountain blizzard, freezing and obscured. Eugenides had to keep himself from shivering.

“Why did you delay so long since then?” Eugenides asked, his mouth dry.

“I was afraid, Your Majesty,” Lepkus answered. He was sweating. “I thought I would be arrested as a co-conspirator.”

“What,” Eugenides said, cool and clipped, “changed your mind?”

“The guilt at the obstruction, sir. You deserve a better subject than what I’ve been. I will accept whatever sentence you deem fit.”

The room was silent again.

Eugenides railed against himself, within. Costis would never. He was loyal to a fault and usually honest. Eugenides had chosen him for that honesty and his reputation, as well as the distance of his family. They were too far to have connections in the city or palace.

Yet, yet.

“Do not go beyond the outer palace walls,” Eugenides said, to Lepkus. “Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Lepkus said.

“Everyone in this room is bound to silence, upon pain of death,” Eugenides announced. There were four nods and the murmured, “Your Majesty,” came from every mouth. It excluded Teleus but Eugenides only wanted to involve him if necessary. “I will look into this. A letter is not proof.”

“There are also his studies of poisonous plants, Your Majesty,” Lepkus said quietly. “Those were with the letter. I left them.”

The plants. Eugenides hadn’t forgotten. He had listened to Costis share notes on dozens of plants in Roa.

“Philologos, is Costis here?” Eugenides asked, eyes still on Lepkus.

“No, my king. He is out.”

“Go find the notes. Take them to my bedchamber.”

Philologos nodded and went to a narrow door at the far end of the room. He carried an armful of papers to the king’s bedchamber a moment later.

“Does the room look disturbed?” Eugenides asked.

“No, Your Majesty,” Philologos said, upon his return.

Eugenides turned to Lepkus. “I will decide what to do with you later. For now, act as if nothing has happened.”

Lepkus bowed and Exis escorted him from the room. Eugenides was still sitting in the chair, still as stone, when he came back.

“Shall I inform Teleus? Arrest Costis?” he asked. He was experienced, a senior guard, and knew what he was doing. Eugenides refused him and rose to his feet.

The door lock clicked as it latched behind him, and he sat at the desk flipping through sketches of plants and notes about them long into the night. The hand was rough and boyish, but improved as the sketches did. There were notes on color and location, on root systems and leaf shape, and on usage.

Poisons.

More than one.

Eugenides’ heart sank.

There was a gentle knock on the door when the moon was a high sliver in the sky, and Philologos’ voice came through. “My king, you should ready for bed.”

Eugenides ignored him.

He turned it over and over in his mind, terrified and desperate. It exhausted him as the night wore on– the plants, the letter, the poison he survived, Costis’ sullen silence now that he was being sent away. He wanted to refuse every doubt, but there were cracks in the walls now.

He wanted to escape to a roof or wall to think. He felt trapped, chained to this desk, bound by his promise to Irene. He was too miserable and sick to go to her. She would know something was wrong, and if he told her, he couldn’t bear to hear her confirm what he wanted to be blind to.

Costis Ormentiedes had been pretending to protect him, to better kill him. It was at the orders of someone else, and to protect a beloved sister and father and farm, but the cost was the same to Eugenides no matter what the motivation.

In the dog watch, he got up once, to vomit into a vase.

He sat back down, his arm aching, and waited for morning.

When Costis came to guard him, he decided, was when he would know. Perhaps the light of day would chase away his doubts and seeing the guard would put them to rest. He could ask about the letter– maybe it was a genuine threat, and Costis had dealt with it already.

The sun rose on a world bleak and bewildering. Eugenides realized, belatedly, that perhaps he should have gone to seek the advice of Relius. It was too late now.

He unlocked the door, let Philologos provide a washbasin and change of clothes in the low dawn light. Philologos took the vase away, as well. The attendant likely hadn’t slept either, and it made Eugenides feel less alone somehow.

He was at the window, staring at the landscape of rooftops and courtyards and gardens, when Costis came in. He usually stood guard in whatever room Eugenides was in, rather than outside each room. There had been so many opportunities to kill the king, Eugenides was comforted by the fact that Costis had seized none of them when they were alone.

Maybe, Costis had been threatened and then put off complying as long as possible. Maybe he had poisoned himself in a show to appease the man blackmailing him. If he confessed to that, then Eugenides could perhaps get away with exiling him instead of hanging him.

Costis cleared his throat.

He’d meant to say something the night before, and hadn’t, Eugenides remembered.

He turned, and all his doubts vanished.

This was Costis. He was going to go to Brael on Eugenides’ orders, he had stolen Kamet away from the Mede, and he was too faithful and loyal and (generally) honest to be guilty of treason. He’d nearly died protecting his king, and had attempted out of a sense of duty to stay to do it again. Despite his attempt to lie, Eugenides suspected he was unhappy in the palace and had grown silent the past week in relieved acceptance of his new orders.

The little fear that insisted a letter and stacking evidence were nothing to ignore was a fear easily quelled now.

“Costis.” Eugenides gave him permission to speak with a nod.

“My king,” Costis said. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t slept either. “I know it is not my place to be so bold, but I must try. I believe I should stay here, Your Majesty. Consider it a personal favor to me, if I may ask for such a thing.”

Eugenides’ blood ran like a glacial spring.

He faced the window again, as if considering, to buy time to think. He didn’t fear Costis attacking him in the moment. He even knew if it came to blows in direct hand-to-hand combat he was the better swordsman and knife fighter.

“You act as if the mission in Brael was an afterthought,” he said. He sounded calm to his own ears.

“No, Your Majesty. But I know nothing of the language, the culture. Surely, you have men better suited to this task.” Costis hadn’t moved any further into the room.

It was true, Eugenides could find someone better suited. He had thought Costis would enjoy the challenge, when recent tensions made it clear an additional set of eyes and ears would be useful in Brael. But now, pragmatic choice of operatives was a meaningless diversion from the betrayal at hand.

“Perhaps. But I am the king, and I’ve chosen you,” Eugenides said. “Do I owe you a favor?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Costis said, strained. “But…you had…you’d mentioned…”

“Because of the poison?” Eugenides asked. He wanted to throw something and instead he placed his hand on the smooth windowsill, let the solidity ground him. For not the first time in the past months, he wanted his father and his counsel, though he’d rarely wanted it in Eddis.

“Yes,” Costis said, and it sounded like he’d forced himself to say it through gritted teeth.

That’s when Eugenides looked at him again.

“That was your duty,” he said.

“I know,” Costis said, too quickly. “I know it was, my king. Trust me, if I had any other grounds to seek such a favor, I would. I am at your mercy, as ever. I fear you are in danger and you gain very little from sending me in particular to Brael. Until I learn the language, my information won’t even be reliable.”

“I’m not stupid,” Eugenides said, voice rising. “I know this. For reasons that are my own, I considered it worth the delay.”

“Your Majesty,” Costis said, pleading now. “I can do more good here.”

“Good?” Eugenides echoed. He didn’t bother to keep the rage out of his tone. The glacial spring was turning to hot geysers, boiling over to scorch the ground.

It was perhaps his anger that sparked the same in Costis, because the guard also changed. In an instant, he went from tempered supplication to shouting.

And he wasn’t even drunk.

“Your _life_ is in danger, Your Majesty! If I’m here then at least I’m a diversion, for as long as I live.”

“My life is always in danger!” Eugenides yelled back. He swung his arm through the air in a wild gesture and felt the skin against the cuff of the hook stinging like he’d poured salt on it.

“Then let me _protect_ you!” Costis hadn’t stepped forward but his shoulders were braced. His entire face was red, pale eyes blazing.

“I don’t need you to protect me, I need you to follow orders!” Eugenides didn’t care if the attendants heard them, if the entire palace did.

“It is _folly_ to send me away right now and if you weren’t so focused on protecting me, as if I didn’t know what I’m risking, then you could see that. I’m a _guard_ , not a helpless aristocrat! Let me stay and do my job!”

“It would be folly to let you stay here to kill me!” Eugenides screamed, advancing.

Costis took a step back, confused and gaping.

“What?” he said, hushed. “My king, what do you mean?”

“I told you that you needed more practice lying, you were right,” Eugenides said, heaving for air. “You didn’t cover your tracks well enough. You did get away with more than I would have expected, though. I didn’t see it at all, and that is a _terrible_ blow to my pride.”

Costis went as pale as snow. He began to tremble.

“My king,” he said, “What have you been told?”

“Look and tell me,” Eugenides said, pointing to the desk with a flourish. He’d left the plant notes and the letter Lepkus had brought strewn over the surface. He needed to direct Costis’ attention before he cried– Eugenides could not be stone, like his wife.

Costis, with effort, tore his eyes off Eugenides and took slow steps to the desk.

“What I don’t understand,” Eugenides said, while Costis studied the papers, “is why, if your family was threatened, you wouldn’t come to me. You had to know I would have protected them, so the conclusion left is that you also want me dead. Was it after Medea, that your opinion changed?”

The letter was shaking in Costis’ hand.

“Where did you get this?” he whispered. His face was open in horrified shock.

“It was given to me,” Eugenides said. “The rest you gave me yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up! last few chapters. i do promise a happy ending.


	14. Chapter 14

The letter threatening harm to his aging father, to his sister and her husband, to the family’s farm, crumpled in his shaking hand.

The king, mere feet away, was silent.

Costis knew he was a dead man. It was his word against the king’s, in some sick joke of the gods. He had gone in to argue his case afraid of losing the king’s favor but he had never in a thousand years been braced for this.

“These are my notes,” Costis said, in a hollow voice, spreading them out with his other hand. The rough sketches of stems and petals were familiar to him, the notes in his own hand.

“So, so, so,” the king said.

Costis turned to him and fell on his knees, holding his palms up in desperate plea.

“My king, this…this letter, I’ve never seen it before in my life. You have to believe me.”

“I don’t have to believe _anything_ ,” Attolis said severely.

A wounded noise escaped Costis, like he’d been kicked.

“Please,” he said. “I would never. My king, it is an honor to serve you. I don’t hate you. I would never do this, not even for my family.”

It was like his life had taken a winding path away from that afternoon when he’d hit the king, only to loop back around to this moment where his fate was repeated. Was this what the gods had wanted? His execution merely delayed instead of averted by the king’s mercy?

He put his face in his hands and tried not to weep in frustration, and despair.

“My king,” he said. “I can’t prove it. My only proof is what I’ve been to you.”

“Get up,” the king snarled.

Costis rose.

“Arrest me,” Costis said flatly. If this was his end, he would accept it. He wouldn’t beat uselessly against things he couldn’t fight or overturn.

“I will arrest you,” the king said. The words burned like acid. “I will send Teleus to do it. First, I want you to run.”

“What?” Costis said, thoroughly confused.

“Run,” Attolis said. His eyes were hard and glittering, the temperature in the room as chill as the air outside when he leaned forward. “I want to hunt you like a dog.”

“My king, I–” Costis began.

“ _GO_!” Attolis howled, and Costis took off at a dead sprint. He flew through the antechamber and past waiting, wide-eyed attendants and he fled down stairs toward the guard’s courtyard. If the king had given orders before Costis came on duty, then it would be walking into a pit of vipers.

He nearly collided with Aris, running past the mess. Aris caught him in his arms and for a wild second they spun, Costis struggling to get away and Aris holding on, their balance thrown. When Costis stopped pulling he nearly collapsed onto Aris.

“What in god’s name?” Aris exclaimed.

“Treason,” Costis gasped, hunched over. “I’ve…been accused…of…treason. Oh, gods. I swear I didn’t, Aris, I don’t know where he got such a letter. You know me. He’s going to arrest me, and I’ll hang.”

“Not on false charges,” Aris said fiercely. “Not while I’m alive.”

“No,” Costis spat out. He grabbed Aris by the shoulders, leaning on him while shaking him. “If I hang, I hang. You promised me, Aris. Even if I die, you’ll guard him.”

“Are you _insane_?” Aris exclaimed.

“You _promised_ ,” Costis said.

“Fine, yes, yes, I promised. Why are you running?” Aris gripped Costis by the forearm.

Costis wrenched away from the support. “Because he told me to.”

He ran again. It wasn’t just the king’s order that drove him. He was also terrified. They would torture him, to get him to name the man who penned the letter. He wouldn’t be able to name anyone. He’d told Aris hanging, but he had no doubt his death would be long and slow and painful.

Then he would be dead, disgraced and believed a traitor. Knowing that was its own kind of torture.

Costis ran, lungs and legs protesting, as far as the steps of the temple. There, he slowed. He hadn’t run this hard or fast since before he’d been poisoned and the exertion was taking its toll.

Gasping, hunched with his hands braced on his knees, he raised his face to the temple. Sweat was beading on his forehead, cooling quickly in the late autumn morning air. He could go to the altar, hands empty, and then be arrested there– it would be a blight on the altar to force a company of guards to arrest him in front of it.

He turned and stumbled walking back toward the palace, his steps steadying as he went. If the order hadn’t been carried through the palace yet, he had a scant few minutes. Otherwise, he was walking into their arms, in defiance of the king’s final order.

Costis started running again. If he was fast enough, they’d still have to hunt.

There were passages in the palace less frequented, or used mostly by servants carrying out the hundreds of small tasks that kept the palace functioning. He got through the side gate without question, which gave him hope, and he jogged up a long back stairway.

The palace wasn’t yet in an uproar when he slipped down a narrow passage mostly used for laundry. He passed a few servants, but no one who tried to stop him.

He went up, and up, driven by some compulsion he didn’t fully understand. There was an interior tower that overlooked some courtyards, not regularly guarded. It was used sometimes for studying the night sky, and he kept moving until he burst from the stairwell onto the smooth tiles of its floor.

Costis collapsed in the shelter of the low wall that enclosed the tower. It was a hexagon, the weathered tiles cut in the same shape. He waited on his knees, forehead pressed against the cold stone of the wall, and he listened as the palace below came to life with noise.

There were shouts and the pounding of running feet, the clinking of chainmail and drawn sword.

He didn’t understand.

Someone had lied to the king, that was clear, but he didn’t _understand_. Had the gods led him along to this point to punish him? Had he offended the king’s god so deeply it wasn’t enough to let him die falling from a ship, or of poison?

They would take the family farm.

His family would be destitute– no one in Attolia would offer work, even to okloi, stained by premeditated treason.

He would die and his king would think it had all been a lie, from beginning to end. In a palace far from his own home, he would think one of the few he had trusted had betrayed him.

And then someone would take his place guarding the king, and the king would be in as much danger as ever– perhaps more, if whoever had framed Costis used it as a way to draw closer.

Costis wept, not even bothering to lift his hands to cover his face.

There was no time to write letters or give explanations, anything he said even during torture would be distrusted. There was nothing he could do.

When he was spent and no one had come, he lifted his head. The sounds of the hunt had grown distant, and the courtyard was quiet except for far off shouts. They must have gone into the city and the fields beyond.

With stiff fingers, he tugged the chestplate armor over his head and set it aside. He unhooked his belt, and laid it with his sword on the tiles, and the chainmail layer of the kilt was next. If he was going to be arrested and dragged down to the prison, it wouldn’t be as a guard.

Then, he waited.

When he heard steps on the stairs behind him, the only surprise was that it sounded like one man alone. The shadow of a lone guard fell across the wall in front of him, and Costis closed his eyes.

A mercy.

The king had sent someone to spare him torture and public hanging after all. It wouldn’t be gentle, or bloodless, but Costis would accept it without struggle.

He stood slowly, hands raised in surrender, and opened his eyes, but he didn’t turn. In the end, he couldn’t face the guard. Whether the face wore victorious gloating or resigned pity, he couldn’t bear to see it. He would die facing the air and the gods, seeing Attolia one last time.

The knife went in his back, low and to the side. His entire body bucked from the hot-iron pain of it, and his hand flew out unbidden to hold himself up on the wall.

There was hot breath on his ear and then a venomous whisper.

“He’s next. Then, my queen and her child will be free of him.”

The knife withdrew and Costis’ gasp was a wordless prayer.

_A mercy._

Of all the people in the palace that could have been on the top of the tower with him, it was the one man he most wanted to kill.

The gods must have known. He could protect Attolis after all.

Costis twisted to avoid the next blow, and it glanced off his shoulder. He caught Lepkus’ wrist, but his side twitched and he stumbled, his back on the wall. The blade hovered inches from his throat, shaking as they fought, and he knew in that instant that wresting the knife away wasn’t a sure thing. He was injured, still weakened, and it was a gamble.

So, Costis slid to the side, swung an arm around Lepkus, kicked his feet against the wall, and chose the thing that would be a different gamble.

He laughed at how much sense it suddenly made, the way it fit into place like river water flowing past the sluice and filling all the neatly ordered ditches.

His god would keep him, or he would not.

There were raised shouts below.

They went over the wall, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hang in there! one more chapter! i promise no character deaths.


	15. Chapter 15

The bedchamber was destroyed. 

Eugenides stood in the midst of the disarray, breathing hard. He felt sick, with the distinct impression that he’d lost some important part of himself with those words: _I want to hunt you like a dog_. Trashing the room hadn’t made him feel any better.

He adjusted the straps of the cuff. He’d wrenched it so hard it had come loose, digging into tender skin in the process.

He stormed out of the room, leaving the upturned furniture and torn blankets behind him, yelling for someone to find Teleus. He had no personal guard at the moment, only those set to watch at the outer doors, and both of them came into the room at his shouts.

The attendants were quiet as mice, all huddled together in a corner of the room. It would have been comical if it hadn’t been for the fiery disaster of Eugenides’ day– they had heard the argument between Costis and himself, and then the destruction of the bedchamber after.

He ignored them.

When the captain arrived, it was with a hand on his sword.

“Find Costis,” Eugenides snapped. “Arrest him. For treason.”

“What?” Teleus thundered, dropping his hand. “My king, have you gone mad?”

“I have proof,” Eugenides said. “And I gave you an _order_ , Captain. He’s running and you’re wasting time.”

“Running…” Teleus said, as if he couldn’t comprehend. 

_I told him to,_ Eugenides could have said. He didn’t.

Teleus hesitated, and then went, raising the alarm as he did. 

Within ten minutes, the entire palace was in an uproar. Eugenides paced in his own antechamber, and paused by a window to see men pouring through a courtyard toward an outer gate. 

There was fierce pounding on the door of the king’s chambers and Eugenides gave a command to open it. 

A guard fell into the room, catching himself when his momentum threw him forward, and he righted. His face was marred by panic, and when no one stopped him, he hurried a few paces and dropped to his knees in front of the king.

It was Aris, Costis’ friend.

“Please, Your Majesty,” he said, his words broken by a sob. “Please, Costis would never. Call them off, Your Majesty. Someone has framed him.”

Doubt, and hope, flickered.

“The evidence is compelling,” Eugenides said. “His behavior has also been suspect. So, unless you want to hang with him, I would _get on your feet_ and go search with the rest of the guard.”

“Please,” Aris said again, head bowed. “They’re letting the dogs out. Call them off. He doesn’t want you dead, he’s been worried for you. He’s had nightmares of your death, he says they’re from the gods. He told me he was going to ask to stay.”

“I don’t–”

“He said serving you was his _honor_ , Your Majesty,” Aris begged. “He made me swear that even if you hung him, that I would protect Your Majesty with my life. Why would he make me swear that if he was guilty of treason?”

“I…” Eugenides stomach flipped over inside him, full of writhing snakes. He tried to hold on to his anger, knowing he wouldn’t be able to see this through otherwise.

“Your Majesty, he speaks the truth.” Ion spoke from the cluster of attendants. He stepped forward. “I heard it, as well. Ormentiedes wouldn’t, my king.”

“Please. They’ll let the dogs tear him apart,” Aris pled. 

Eugenides shuddered, memories on his heels like demons. His scars burned like they were fresh wounds. 

He stood there, immobile, until another voice joined Aristogiton and Ion. His head snapped up at the sound, and he saw Attolia Irene in the open doorway, her attendants behind her. 

“Ormentiedes argued to stay,” she said evenly, “because I commanded him to do so. What proof? You trusted this man implicitly not twelve hours ago. What has changed?”

“Oh, gods,” Eugenides breathed, remembering the moment before Costis had begun arguing, when he had been certain down to his marrow that Costis was innocent. 

It was as if he hadn’t slept in months and it was all crashing down on him in an instant, how muddled by fear and exhaustion his thinking had become. Irene could lock him in his rooms and rule alone for ten years and it wouldn’t be what this lack of judgment deserved.

She crossed the room and placed a hand along his cheek.

“My Lord Attolis,” she said. Her voice was firm but her gaze was tender. “Call off the hunt. We will find him, and the guilty one, but they are not the same man.”

Irene so rarely trusted anyone that this was a rebuke unto itself. 

“Ion,” Eugenides said, struggling to speak. “Take my ring. Go and find the master of the hounds and have him call the dogs back.”

He held out his hand, and Ion took the ring off his finger and hurried out.

“Thank you,” Aris said, head still bent. 

“Find Teleus and tell him I need to speak with him, and that Costis is to be brought to me unharmed,” Eugenides said to him. Aris scrambled to his feet and left.

“You need rest,” Irene said, when they were left alone with attendants. 

Eugenides was shaken, embarrassed, exhausted beyond reason. He wanted to crawl into his bed, beneath the ruined blankets, and sleep for ages. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Someone in this damned palace is trying to kill me _and_ my favorite guard. I’m going to find Costis.”

“The guards will find him,” Irene reminded him. 

Eugenides almost spit, he was so angry at his loss of agency. He wanted to go search the city and countryside without a parade after him. He kept his frustration as hidden from her as he could, but he suspected she saw it anyway.

“Then I’ll wait,” he said stiffly. 

“I’ll wait with you,” Irene said.

It wasn’t a question and it didn’t sound optional. Her guards were in the hall, some of her best men, and together they would be safe. There was a warning in her words, and he ceded to it.

“Very well,” he said. “In the guard’s courtyard.”

If she thought his choice odd, she said nothing.

They moved through the palace slowly, more slowly than he liked, and he told her everything from Lepkus’ visit the night before, and his study of Costis’ notes. He told her, worried even now that she would find some detail that turned her trust into fury. 

She was silent, until they reached the edge of the courtyard.

“I know,” she said, in a low voice, pitched to avoid the ears of all those around them, “the strain of feeling alone, with the danger and the responsibility of ruling. You have spared me that. Do not make it your life, in return, by excluding me. I am not so delicate as to be crushed by sharing it.”

Eugenides wrapped his fingers around her wrist to slow her steps, and then he kissed her on the cheek.

“Thank you, my Queen,” he said. 

That was all he needed to say.

The captain strode toward them from the far west gate when they approached the yard. Attendants went to find chairs and a dais, though Eugenides wouldn’t sit. 

“Your Majesties,” Teleus said, bowing. “Aristogiton found me. I came as quickly as I could.”

“Arrest Lepkus,” Eugenides said. “Find Costis, but don’t arrest him.”

Teleus’ severe expression eased in relief. “Yes, my king,” he said. He turned and called a lieutenant to him. 

The dais was set up and the chairs set upon it, and Irene sat down gracefully. Eugenides remained on his feet, afraid that if he sat and held her hand he would fall asleep there in the yard.

Men moved all around them, going in and out of the yard. In another part of the palace, the dogs were being returned to their kennels. One of them brayed above the barking and Eugenides suppressed his flinch. 

Then, there was a glimmer of white in the corner of his eye, and long, nimble fingers on his chin. 

“Look up,” said the voice in his ear. 

He looked up, at the tower south of the yard and overlooking it. It was low and close enough he could make out the important details, and he didn’t need to see them closer to know who he was looking at. 

One man raised a knife, and the other didn’t resist. There was a pause, shouts from those who had followed his gaze when he’d made a noise, and a struggle. 

Then, they went over the wall together.

They landed with a thud and a plume of dust rose from the far side of armory building they’d disappeared behind.

Eugenides couldn’t yell, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. 

So, the gods had wanted him to witness the consequence of his folly.

Guards running toward the armory stopped suddenly and fell back with horrified cries. Teleus was beside Eugenides and he said, “I’ll go.” His mouth was grim.

Costis Ormentiedes staggered around the corner of the armory.

A deep hush fell over the yard.

He limped toward Eugenides with a hand held to his side. The hand was covered in blood, his leather tunic was torn and crimson along one shoulder, but his jaw was set.

Nobody moved or spoke while he limped across the yard, except Aris ran to him and offered his shoulder. Costis shoved past him, as if he hadn’t seen him at all, his eyes locked on Eugenides. Aris didn’t try a second time.

When he reached the king, Costis fell to his knees. There was dust in his hair and a streak of dirt across one side of his face, the bruise already blooming beneath it. 

“I,” he began, with a cough. “I killed…the traitor. It’s my word against his, so if you don’t believe me…”

Eugenides still couldn’t speak, though he was trying. He felt as if the impact of hitting the ground had rattled his own lungs and ribs.

Costis reached forward, swaying as he did, and grabbed the hook at Eugenides’ side. Eugenides resisted on instinct, but not fiercely enough to tug away. Costis tipped his head back and placed the point of the hook at his bared throat.

“If you don’t believe me,” he said raggedly, “then kill me now. If I die, I will die by your own hand.”

Eugenides gaped at him and found his voice. He pulled the hook back. 

“Costis, was that a joke.”

There was a rakish grin in reply, but Costis’ eyes were full of tears.

“If you want it to be,” he said. 

“You threw yourself off a _tower_ ,” Eugenides said. 

“Our god will keep me, or he will not,” Costis said.

Eugenides felt the words like a sword to the chest. Hadn’t Costis sworn his loyalty to Eugenides and Eugenides, both, every time he’d been asked?

“I’m sorry,” Eugenides said, leaning down. He pressed a kiss onto Costis’ dirty forehead and the guard made a noise that cut Eugenides to the quick. Eugenides was surprised to find that he was the one crying, and he wiped a sleeve across his face as quickly as he could. Costis bent his head down and sighed.

“I might pass out,” he said. “And I stole your inkpot for the altar.”

Eugenides dropped to a crouch in the yard, laughing. He laughed until he cried again, and then he pulled Costis forward into an embrace. He didn’t care what anyone in the yard thought, or that Irene might not fully approve– he was a king who was once not a king, and if he was bound to lose himself in little bits, then he would fiercely cling to what humanity he could keep. He wasn’t a god, even if he could order life or death to a nation. Costis’ head was heavy on his shoulder.

When he let him go, there was blood on his sleeve.

“I was stabbed,” Costis said, his dusty face tear-streaked. “And I fell. I landed on him, but he wasn’t very soft.”

“Aristogiton has already gone for Petrus,” Teleus said, getting closer. He crouched too, and looked at Costis. “Can you stand, if I help you?”

Costis nodded and Eugenides didn’t give Teleus the chance– he pulled him to his feet, and kept Costis’ arm across his shoulders to support him.

“My king,” Costis said, alarmed. “The captain can–”

“Shut up, Costis,” Eugenides said, glancing at Irene. She was trying not to smile, and her face was impassive to all save him, he was sure, but he could see it in the corner of her mouth, of her eyes, in the way she looked back at him. He whispered. “I promise I won’t kiss my Lady Attolia this time, not until you’re gone.”

Costis barked a laugh, and he must have looked insane to everyone else, too far away to hear or even see that Eugenides had spoken. The laugh ended in a groan.

“To Brael?”

“No,” Eugenides said. “You stay here.”

“The same ribs,” Costis muttered, wheezing. “Gods.”

“You need Petrus to see to you before you bleed out,” Teleus said, worried. Eugenides took a step toward the barracks and Costis went with him.

“It won’t kill me,” Costis said.

“That isn’t what it means for him to keep you,” Eugenides warned, concerned by the bloodied yard behind him. Tendrils of panic crept up again, that he might lose Costis anyway. He was going to be a father and he wanted to hold his child without the hook on his arm, from the fear of what might be behind him.

“It won’t kill me, my king,” Costis insisted. “Trust me.”

So Eugenides did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading <3


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